American Edition - Hatred is the Key - Eigth Book Set Up 7 Dec 2009

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Other titles by the author

Ticket to Ride

We're gonna be famous



Published in 2009 by Tabitha Books

Copyright © 2009 Graham Sclater

First American Edition

The author asserts the moral right under the

Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be

identified as the author of this work.

All the characters in this publication are fictitious

and any resemblance to real persons, living or deadis purely coincidental.

All Rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-9563977-1-3

No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, without the prior written

consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in

any form of binding or cover other than that in

which it is published and without a similar condition

being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Typeset in Book Antiqua by Denise

Bailey

Edited by Caroline Yeandle

Tabitha Books is a division of Tabitha Music

Limited

Exeter EX2 9DJ England

[email protected]

www.tabithabooks.webs.com



HATRED IS THE KEY

Graham Sclater

Tabitha Books



Cover by Feddy Lavrov



On June 18, 1812, the United States declared war

on Great Britain. Almost immediately they called

for an invasion of Canada. The initial American

successes turned to a number of defeats resulting

in English ships effectively blockading the

American coastline and subjecting it to a series of

hit and run raids and the capture of numerous

ships.

The majority of the crew captured from the

American ships were transported to Plymouth in

south west England to spend their time in the

notorious Dartmoor depot, a prison constructed

primarily to house 3,000 French prisoners-of-war.

But by December 1814 there were more than

10,000 American prisoners incarcerated in what

was the most evil of places.



Cover photography by Maureen Harrison



Author Graham Sclater is based in Devon where

he works as a music publisher, songwriter and

record producer. Prior to returning to Devon he

was a professional musician playing and recording

all over the world and working as a session

musician with numerous artists. His first novel

“Ticket to Ride” was published in 2006 followed

by “We're gonna be famous” in 2009. He is

currently working on a number of television

series, screenplays and further novels.

Acknowledgements



Trevor and June James, Brett Johnson, Mike

Chamberlain, David Keeling, Caroline Yeandle, Denise

Bailey, Maureen Harrison and Feddy Lavrov, Brian

Dingle at Dartmoor Prison Museum, Mr G L Johnson -

Governor of HM Prison Dartmoor 2000 – 2002 and

Andrea Bocelli for his wonderful music while I worked

on this novel.



Dedicated to American prisoner-of-war John Seapatch,

aged 12, who died 7 February 1815 less than two months

after arriving in the Dartmoor depot

Preface

The early 1800's were a difficult time for England,

already at war with France. The financial strainwas further increased when it entered into a war

with America.



The war of 1812, sometimes referred to as “the

Second War of Independence” was fought

between the United States and Great Britain from

1812 to 1814.

English ships instituted extensive maritime

barricades of European ports to prevent American

ships helping the French. The resulting seizure of

American merchant shipping quickly brought

demands for retaliation from the United States.

On June 18, 1812, the United States declared

war on Great Britain. Almost immediately they

called for an invasion of Canada. The initial

American successes turned to a number of

defeats resulting in English ships effectively

blockading the American coastline and subjecting

it to a series of hit and run raids and the capture

of numerous ships.

In 1814 with France collapsing, Great Britain

launched a number of major attacks on Americancities, resulting in the burning of the White House

and other public buildings. With America facing

bankruptcy morale was extremely low.



The majority of the crew captured from the

American ships were transported to Plymouth in

south west England to spend their time in the

notorious Dartmoor depot, a prison constructed

primarily to house three thousand French

prisoners-of-war, which was soon filled with

10,000 Americans.



HATRED IS THE

KEY



Graham Sclater



Chapter one

The night sky was pitch black except for the

curtain of shimmering stars.

The Raytheon, an impressive British ship of

seventy four guns, sliced its way through the

waves as it patrolled the east coast of the United

States in search of any ship who dared to breakthe blockade.

The only movement on deck was the lone

watchman, his footsteps, the creaking timbers

and gently flapping sails gave a strange

reassurance to all on board. He would stopperiodically to shout to the lookout in the crows

nest and peer out into the night looking for any

sign of the enemy before continuing his ritualistic

meandering.

1



Hatred is the key

The first pink fingers of dawn simmered on the

horizon revealing the silhouette of a frigate and a

much smaller brig. The night watchman reached

the bow of the ship and, after carefully aiming his

telescope, immediately recognised the flags

swirling from the ships.

Still peering through the telescope he

screamed out, ‘Star and Stripes on the larboard

bow!’ his voice fading into the ocean.

With the telescope still extended awkwardly in

one hand he blew his whistle loudly and, now

joined by the lookout in the crows nest, they blew

their whistles simultaneously in long extended

bursts alerting the crew and waking the whole

ship.

The Raytheon suddenly burst into life.

The crew, many still almost naked, appeared

from every edifice.‘Go aloft, Jimmy!’ screamed the boatswain as

he struggled to pull his braces over his sweat

stained vest.

2



Graham Sclater

‘Aye, aye, sir!’ replied Jimmy as he knuckled

his forehead. While the remainder of the crew

took their well-rehearsed positions throughout the

ship, Jimmy ran towards the rigging and pulled

himself effortlessly up. In the distance, the

smaller of the two American ships turned and

raced across the horizon and the larger USS

Libertine, a French built ship, attempted to follow.

‘Man-o-war, sir,’ shouted Jimmy his voice

almost inaudible except to the well-trained ears of

the boatswain and the ship's captain.

Captain Jonas Sleep, an erect mature man,

stood resplendent in his immaculate uniform even

at that time of the morning. He was a very

experienced seaman having spent most of his life

on board one ship or another until he had been

given command of his first ship under Nelson and

then command of the much larger Raytheon.His razor sharp mind took over.

‘Alter course, Mr Hartman,’ he ordered.

3



Hatred is the key

Isaac Hartman, the First Lieutenant repeated

the Captain's instruction and the disciplined crew

burst into action and scattered. Many of them

climbed throughout the rigging working hard to

adjust the yards of canvas. Their efforts were soon

rewarded and the ship gained speed and veered

towards their American adversary.

‘Enemy on the same bearing, sir,’ gushed Isaac

Hartman excitedly.

Isaac, a rugged, blonde haired man in his mid-

twenties, had served with the Captain for several

years and they had built up an unusual

relationship, so much so that they now lived close

to each other high on the Devonshire moor

overlooking the Tamar.

Captain Sleep stood proudly watching the

activity going on around him and gave himself a

congratulatory smile as the well-rehearsedpreparations were meticulously carried out. ‘Load,

but do not run out, Mister Hartman,’ he said

slowly.

Below deck there was furious activity as the

gunners prepared, loading double shot into thehuge canon that lined both sides of the gun decks.

4



Graham Sclater

Captain Sleep followed this with more

instructions in quick succession. ‘Beat to quarters,

Mister Harrison. Make ready for action.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ replied the master gunner as

the drummers beat out a steady rhythm.

While the main deck was hurriedly stripped,

the screens removed and the decks sanded,

anything that couldn't be packed including any

livestock, pigs and chicken, still in their coups,

were reluctantly thrown into the sea.

Thomas Irwin, a well-dressed young man in his

late twenties, and clearly not part of His Majesty's

regular crew appeared on deck and stood close to

the Captain.

5



Hatred is the key

His demeanour was readily apparent, twitching

fingers, nervous fidgeting and his frequent furtive

looks into the distance, became more

exaggerated to anyone who took the time to

notice him. Unable to suffer any longer he rushed

away unnoticed to be violently sick. His moans

and vomiting were drowned out by the incessant

rattle of drums, the stampede of the seamen's

feet grinding into the sanded decks as they

rushed to their stations and the red coated

Marines as they took up their stations in the

hammock netting and high in the fighting tops.

Captain Sleep propped his eyeglass on the

midshipman's shoulder and eyed their enemy.

Isaac Hartman returned to the Captain's side.

‘Cleared for action, sir,’ he said the

nervousness clearly apparent in his voice.

The Captain raised his eyeglass and slowlynodded. ‘Will they fight or run, Mister Hartman?’

he asked.

His question was answered for him.

‘They're running for it, sir!’ screamed Jimmy.

The Captain maintained his composure. ‘Trimthe sails,’ he ordered.

6



Graham Sclater

The deckhands rushed to raise the remainder

of the huge sails and as they took up the wind the

Raytheon sliced deep into the sea. The fully

rigged ship was a sight to behold and for a

moment the deckhands stood in wonderment as

the beautiful vessel made its way silently along

the east coast of the United States.

‘Turn about, Mister Hartman,’ instructed

Captain Sleep.

His order found its way swiftly along the deck.

‘Look lively there,’ boomed the boatswain to

the crew high in the rigging.

While the Raytheon sped in the direction of the

enemy, Captain Sleep once again planned his next

manoeuvre.

‘Now she'll fly, lads,’ shouted the Captain

proudly as the ship ploughed heavily into the

waves.‘Aye, aye, sir,’ replied Isaac Hartman grinning,

clearly pleased and honoured to be one of Captain

Sleep's trusted officers.

7



Hatred is the key

The British ship made up a great deal of

ground and when she was within a few miles of

the American ship Captain Sleep gave the

instruction that the impatient gunners had been

waiting for. ‘Open the ports, run out,’ he ordered.

His instructions were followed instantaneously;

the portholes were opened and for the first time

the enemy ship could be clearly seen by the

gunners.

The Captain reached across to the crewman,

grabbed his eyeglass and scrutinised the decks of

the enemy. He returned the eyeglass to its

custodian just as quickly as he'd taken it and for

the first time his face underwent a sombre

transformation. He could sense the mixed feelings

of anticipation and excitement sweeping

throughout the vessel and as Captains had done

so many times before on the numerous ships onwhich he had once served, he said a prayer.

‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord

make us truly thankful,’ he said softly. He looked

around at his officers and across the decks at his

crew and after briefly closing his eyes he gave theinstruction that they had all been waiting for. ‘On

the up roll, Mister Finchley,’ he boomed.

8



Graham Sclater

He forced a reassuring smile and nodded.

‘Good luck, men.’

Below deck, Thomas Irwin stood in the shadows

and trembled with fear. It had been his on

father's insistence that he made the hazardous

journey to Nova Scotia and the idea of being

involved in a sea battle had never seriously

entered either of their thoughts.

The USS Libertine opened the firing, her first

shots ploughed into the sea short of their target

and as the sound of the enemy's guns boomed

across the water, Thomas slid to the floor, the

darkness temporarily swallowing his shrinking

cowardly body. At that moment he felt as though

his world was at an end.

The guns of the Raytheon fired more

accurately and the long double-shotted eighteen

pounders thundered as they returned the fire of the oncoming Libertine.

The shot ploughed into the American ship's

main mast and rigging and the whole vessel

bellowed in agony as her crew were torn apart.

The uninjured crew emerged through the smoke,debris and flames to continue the fight for their

very existence.

9



Hatred is the key

The American guns now returned more

accurate fire and the Raytheon and her crew

came under heavy bombardment from the guns

loaded with chain shot - jagged pieces of iron,

which tore into the top sails and ripped them to

pieces. The deck hands and Marines were slowly

torn apart as it ripped through the piled

hammocks hurling many of the men, screaming

and kicking to the opposite side of the ship.

‘Take care!’ screamed the midshipman, his

throat already sore from gulping the dense

gunpowder laden smoke. ‘They're bloody well

firing langridge, sir.’

Captain Sleep acknowledged the midshipman

with a slow knowing nod as yet another shot hit

the Raytheon's already perilous decking, ripping

the rigging and sending timber shrapnel and

burning canvas crashing down onto the alreadyinjured seamen. The burning sails dropped slowly

to the deck in a perverse and beautiful motion, a

stark contradiction to the impending destruction.

10



Graham Sclater

The midshipman hit by shards of flying metal

and splinters could only stand and stare in horror

as his once white breeches were splashed with

blood and finely cut pieces of his fellow

shipmate's skin. He swayed under the explosion

and opened his mouth but all he could do was to

mouth nothingness before racing aft to help

others suffering the same fate.

Thomas Irwin squirmed in the shadows amid

the deafening roar and acrid smoke, sweating

profusely. Shaking with fear he screamed into the

darkness, clearly a very desperate coward.

The guns from both ships continued to belch

venom and smoke from their decks but this time

there was no double shot, time was much too

precious.

Firing randomly, the two ships continued to

close in on each other.‘Stop yer vents… sponge out… load… run out!’

bellowed Captain Sleep, followed by a quick fire

succession of desperate orders that if not timed to

the second could result in yet another individual's

loss of life.

11



Hatred is the key

Between each firing the gunners worked

relentlessly to sponge and worm out the guns

before firing again. If it was not done they could

likely explode the next time they were fired. The

regular drills had ensured they were all razor

sharp. The movement was perfect, except for the

occasional gun damaged by a misfire.

The only response was a continuation of the

frantic activity as the gunners loaded, fired,

cleaned and then repeated the process. When a

gun and its gunner were hit, the men were

dragged aside and replaced, and the action would

start all over again. There was no time to think

about what was happening around them they all

had a job to do and would continue to do it until

they were either badly injured, ordered to stop or

were dead.

The decks ran with blood.Injured men lay moaning where they fell, their

bodies contorted and twisted amongst the burning

timber and sails. The lucky ones lay dead, crushed

and dismembered beneath the splintered masts,

rigging and fellow crew members, while the lessseriously injured managed to crawl, dragging their

broken limbs along the deck.

12



Graham Sclater

There was no respite. In some places the blood

had already dried and the dark stains resembled

black tar, reflecting the bright sun as it

periodically pierced the smoke and flames.

Richard Bateman, the midshipman, knelt on

the bloodied deck.

‘We lost Mr Harris, sir.’

Captain Sleep having had his concentration

broken snapped back at him. ‘What man?’ he

snarled.

‘Mr Harris is mortally wounded, sir,’ he

repeated.

The Captain acknowledged Richard Bateman

with a curled lip and returned to review the battle.

Whilst the crew rushed around the deck and

removed some of the dead, Doctor William

Fogarty, the ship's surgeon, a plump middle-aged

man, awkwardly dodged the incoming shot andthe ensuing debris as it flew through the air from

every angle, and checked as many of the

wounded as he could.

13



Hatred is the key

The American ship had not fared any better, its

decks burned fiercely and out of control, flames

spread from pockets all over the deck. Thick

choking smoke filled the air and compounded the

chaos. Captain Nathaniel Coombes, a handsome

young man, stood on the deck and tried

desperately to direct his men, while Dylan Chipp,

a middle aged civilian, ripped his expensive well

cut suit as he tried to dodge the incoming shot

and resulting shards of timber and metal. He

rushed jerkily from place to place in an attempt to

find somewhere, anywhere, safe to hide. Now

almost delirious and crazed with fear he rushed

towards Captain Coombes.

‘Captain, we're being ripped to shreds,’ he

screamed.

Captain Coombes had no time for civilians, he

never had. ‘Get him out of ma sight!’ He turnedhis back, ‘Mister Barley, release those below

decks,’ he shouted.

Dylan Chipp, ever the businessman, grabbed at

his arm and screamed. ‘You can't release the

black bastards, they're my property,’ hespluttered, ‘mmm… worth good money.’

14



Graham Sclater

‘What good's a dead slave? How much do you

think they'll be worth then?’ countered Ram

Barley angrily.

Dylan Chipp didn't have time to reply, a

musket ball flew close to his right ear, splitting the

lobe in two. ‘I've been hit,’ he shrieked.

Captain Coombes ignored him and hurriedly

returned to Ram Barley. ‘Release them! What are

yer waiting for? Get on with it, man,’ he ordered.

‘Aye, aye, sir’ replied the midshipman as he

ran along the flaming deck towards the stairs and

hazardous darkness.

Below decks a group of black slaves, Miles

Longman, Joshua Amos, Moses Reading and

Jerome Millington, lay chained and totally

defenceless in the thick smoke and heat. Their

prison periodically illuminated either by the

flames from the fires that broke out around them

or the occasional sunlight which shot its glaring

early morning rays through the damaged hull as

the ship rose and fell.

15



Hatred is the key

Up on deck, the British guns continued to hit

their target inflicting greater damage on the now

defenceless Americans. Flaming sails and larger

pieces of burning timber crashed around them,

killing and maiming the crew and officers.

Ram Barley made his way precariously through

the thick smoke and flames to unlock the chains

of the four remaining slaves. They could only look

on as a shot pierced the ship's hull a few feet from

them blasting large pieces of wood, metal and

lethal splinters of sharp timber into their bare

skin, and cutting deep into their bodies. Jerome

lay motionless, his skull split in two by the chain

that had kept him captive for so many weeks.

Ram Barley unlocked their chains but there

was no time for the terrified slaves to savour their

freedom as another volley of shots hit the hull

sending yet more timber and shrapnel towardstheir exposed and aching bodies.

‘Get out of 'ere. Save yerselves if you can,’

screamed Ram before disappearing into the

smoke.

16



Graham Sclater

Miles knelt beside Jerome's lifeless body, a true

friend, his only friend, and he was dead. He bent

his head, resting it on Jerome's bloody chest. He

stared blindly at the lifeless body of his dearest

friend and sobbed uncontrollably.

‘Cum on mon, he'm lang ded… le's go… 's too

late, ye cun do nuttin' fer dat paw basterd,’

screamed Moses.

Moses tugged at Miles, grabbed Joshua and

dragged them along the deck.

The three of them made their way through the

wreckage and carnage towards the light, naively

expecting it to be safer on deck.

High in the rigging William Cole aimed, fired

his musket, reloaded and fired again and again in

the direction of the officers on the Raytheon.

As Miles, Joshua and Moses Reading crept

nervously onto the main deck they stood andattempted to take in the horror around them.

The stench of burning flesh and gunpowder

wafted through the thick heavy air, choking them

as they gazed at the carnage perpetrated by the

British guns.

17



Hatred is the key

Ram Barley barely conscious and pinned

beneath a large piece of misshapen timber, now

unrecognisable as a mast, moaned loudly. Miles

Longman ran across the deck and effortlessly

lifted the huge piece of now useless mast and

tried desperately to release him. Ram winced

when he saw the deep leg wound and exposed

bone and as he tried to pull himself from beneath

the timber a severed rib sliced through the skin of

his bare chest. Miles screamed at Moses while he

maintained his hold. Moses reluctantly joined him

but as he dragged Ram from under the timber a

piece of shrapnel cut deep into his bare back and

he fell to the deck screaming as the wound

spewed blood down the back of his legs and onto

his bare feet.

The Raytheon closed in on the USS Libertine

but despite the hopelessness the American shiprefused to surrender and continued to fire

haphazardly at the British ship.

Captain Sleep stood on the deck and muttered

under his breath. ‘Strike you bastard! Strike!’

Gritting his teeth, he shook his head in totaldisbelief before whispering to himself. ‘So be it.’

18



Graham Sclater

After slowly surveying the scene around him,

he partially closed his eyes, lowered his sword and

the unforgiving guns blasted away at the

American ship. The heavy fire wreaked havoc and

once more Captain Sleep raised his sword. ‘Royal

Marines stand to… fire on the up roll, Mister

Bateman.’ He looked across at the smoking

American ship. ‘Hold her steady.’

‘Steady she is, sir,’ replied the boatswain.

The Captain hesitated for what seemed like

several long minutes before shaking his head and

as he reluctantly lowered his sword he spoke

through his teeth. ‘Fire,’ he said.

The carnage was unimaginable as the USS

Libertine rocked under the sheer force of the

superior British gunfire killing many of the crew as

the fire began to spread throughout the ship. But

despite the damage the Americans continued tofire blindly.

A shot hit the deck of the Raytheon close to

Mister Bateman. He fell to the deck wounded but

after a few seconds he slowly pulled himself up

and grabbed a pike, which he drove hard into thedeck to hold himself unsteadily upright.

19



Hatred is the key

‘Shorten sail and fire on the up, Mister

Bateman,’ screamed Captain Sleep as he raised

his sword. ‘Hold her steady.’

‘Steady she is, sir’ replied Mister Bateman,

grimacing with pain.

The two ships were now within a few hundred

feet of each other and Isaac Hartman mindful of

the American sharpshooters strategically

positioned in the rigging tried to guide his Captain

out of range. ‘She's struck her colours, sir!’ he

screamed excitedly.

There was sheer pandemonium as the news of

the victory filtered to the crew throughout the

ship until the celebratory cheers built to a

crescendo.

‘Thank God,’ muttered a much relieved Captain

Sleep under his breath.

At that moment a single shot rang out from theAmerican ship and Captain Sleep spun around and

fell to the ground. Isaac Hartman looked down at

his Captain and fired a glance across at the

American ship and the sharpshooter.

William Cole grinned back at him as hereloaded his rifle.

20



Graham Sclater

‘My God… Captain, you've been hit,’ he said as

he shook his head in total disbelief.

Captain Sleep folded with pain. ‘Help me up,

Mister Hartman.’ He attempted to take a deep

breath. ‘I'm fine… only a scratch,’ his voice

already fading as he spoke.

Doctor Fogarty appeared on deck and took a

close look at the Captain's wound.

‘I need to get at that, Captain?’ he said.

Captain Sleep ignored him. ‘Boarding party,

Mister Hartman,’ he said his voice little more than

a whisper.

They both looked at him their identical reaction

mirrored their concern.

‘I need to get that lead out and put in some

stitches, Captain,’ pleaded the Doctor.

Captain Sleep shrugged and made a futile

attempt to pull the torn jacket around the wound.‘I'll be all right man, let's get the job done then

you can do with me what you damn well like,

Doctor Fogarty.’ Captain Sleep looked across the

deck at Mister Hartman. ‘What are you waiting for

man? You heard my order?’He grabbed another breath before speaking,

‘boarding party, Mister Hartman.’

21



Hatred is the key

‘Yes, sir,’ retorted Hartman as he motioned

frantically to the crew.

That was all the crew needed. They let out a

tumultuous yell and crowded around the gunner's

mate until he opened the oak chest and handed

out cutlasses, axes and pistols, which they waved

excitedly in the air.

Thomas Irwin appeared from nowhere. ‘Can I

join them, Captain?’ he asked.

The Captain gave his nodding approval. ‘Look

after him, Mister Hartman.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ he replied.

Thomas Irwin raced towards the chest and

grabbed a pistol and cutlass from the gunner's

mate.

The drummers on the poop deck played with

renewed vigour as the crew lowered a number of

small craft into the Atlantic and clamberedeagerly on board.

The adrenaline raced through their bodies as

they rowed towards the burning beleaguered

American ship screaming excitedly and shouting

obscenities.

22



Graham Sclater

As they approached, many of the American

crew, fearing for their lives, and in a futile attempt

to escape capture, jumped overboard into the

freezing sea.

The boatswain's eyes flitted between the

seamen in the water and the Captain, ‘Sir…?’ he

failed to finish his sentence.

Captain Sleep raised a smile, ‘we'll pick them

up in a few moments, we have all the time we

need,’ he said.

Doctor Fogarty became noticeably agitated.

‘Captain….’ He paused, ‘if I don't get that lead

out….’

The Captain gave him a reassuring tap on the

shoulder, ‘there's time, Doctor, there's time. Just

let 'em savour the moment.’ He gazed across at

his men as they neared the stricken ship

screaming and waving their weapons. ‘Just look atthem… they've earned it.’ He smiled briefly then

winced as the lead ball fired a painful jolt

throughout his body.

23



Hatred is the key

The craft pulled alongside the American ship

and the British crew grappled their way on board

unopposed. They were followed closely by the

Marines, bayonets fixed and pointed in the

direction of their captives, Isaac Hartman, other

officers and finally Thomas Irwin.

‘If they resist… kill 'em,’ screamed Isaac

Hartman.

There was no resistance from their captives

who looked demoralized and stunned by what had

been a bitter battle. The decks were enveloped in

thick smoke and the ship rocked dangerously from

side to side as the Marines took up a line behind

Isaac Hartman, Thomas Irwin and a number of the

more intimidating seamen.

Isaac Hartman drew his sword and took a step

forward. ‘This ship is a prize of war,’ he said as he

walked towards an exhausted and bloody CaptainCoombes. ‘And you… are prisoners-of-war.

Officers will go first, followed by members of the

crew. Bring your wounded and we will do all we

can to care for them,’ he said.

24



Graham Sclater

Dylan Chipp pushed his way to the front and

the Marines immediately stiffened, pointed their

rifles directly at him and pulled back the

hammers.

‘Who the hell are you, man?’ bellowed Isaac

Hartman.

‘This has nothing to do with me… I'm a

civilian.’ He took a huge gulp of air. ‘I shouldn't

be treated like them,’ he bellowed.

‘Take them away,’ ordered Isaac. He raised his

right arm and pointed firmly in the direction of

Dylan Chipp. ‘Him first!’ he snarled.

Despite his desperate pleading and gibbering,

instinctively two Marine's darted forward, grabbed

him and held him in a restrained position

preventing him from any movement at all.

The remaining prisoners including Miles

Longman, Moses Reading, Joshua Amos and Sylas,a young boy no older than eleven, were

shepherded into two groups, seamen in one group

and officers in another.

25



Hatred is the key

Isaac Hartman reached out his hand and

waited for Captain Coombes and his First

Lieutenant to hand over their swords all the while

looking around the deck for the sharpshooter who

had wounded Captain Sleep.

Clearly shell-shocked it took a few seconds for

the American Captain and his First Lieutenant to

reach for their swords.

Thomas Irwin sweating profusely fiddled

nervously with the hammer of his musket before

he pointed it in the direction of Captain Coombes

and at almost point blank range fired.

Isaac Hartman grabbed at the musket and tore

it from Thomas Irwin.

Thomas shook violently, his eyes wide, white

and hideous, grinning with the look of a man

possessed.

‘You crazy bastard!’ screamed Dylan Chipp,‘what did you do that for? Didn't you see he

wasn't armed? Come on kill us all! Who cares

what happens to us now!’

26



Graham Sclater

Isaac Hartman took control. ‘Get 'em moving.’

He pointed to the wounded Captain Coombes.

‘And get him across to the surgeon. We might be

able to do something for the poor bastard.’ He

now turned his attention to Thomas Irwin. ‘You,

Mister Irwin are under arrest.’ He swallowed hard.

‘Take him away!’ he bawled.

An American seaman ran towards the Marines

and defying their flashing bayonets, musket and

rifle fire blindly threw himself overboard and

disappeared beneath the burning timber and

mutilated corpses of his shipmates that now

littered the Atlantic.

While the prisoners-of-war were taken back to

the Raytheon, Isaac Hartman and a handful of

Marines searched what was left of the ship and

identified anything they could salvage. The casks,

boxes and chests were loaded onto the remainingboats before they cast off leaving the burning ship

to founder out of control.

27



Hatred is the key

Captain Sleep stood on deck; his once

immaculate uniform now soaked with his own

blood gleamed scarlet in the sun. He supported

himself against the solid oak rail and took in the

mayhem that surrounded him watching the able

bodied men as they tore at the burning sails and

smoking timber and checked their crewmates for

any sign of life.

The Captain pushed himself away from the rail

and made his way unsteadily along deck before

turning his attention to the enemy's ship as it

sank slowly beneath the waves.

Jimmy nervously approached him and spoke in

little more than a whisper.

‘There she goes, sir….’ He waited for a

reaction. There was none. He continued, ‘we

won, sir,’ he gushed innocently.

Captain Sleep forced a smile but retained hispained look. ‘I know it may seem like that.’ He

shook his head slowly and paused before

speaking. ‘No one wins a war.’ The Captain looked

across at the American prisoners as they shuffled

along the deck sandwiched between two rows of proud but battle weary Marines.

‘They just lost,’ he said benevolently.

28



Graham Sclater

Jimmy looked up at him quizzically his head

tilted to one side before he turned and walked

away mumbling to himself.

Below decks the gunners checked their filthy

numbed bodies for wounds and gradually

appreciated they at least were still alive. It had

been a hard and bloody battle.

On the orlop deck, deep in the bowels of the

ship, the timbers painted red so the blood stains

wouldn't undermine the morale of the crew,

Captain Sleep refused to be treated before his

injured crew; instead he stood and waited his

turn. While the ship rocked gently and the

swinging lanterns created deep dark menacing

shadows, the wounded were laid on old sails

awaiting surgery or certain death in the stinking

bloody hellhole.

The injured seaman on the makeshift operatingtable screamed out in pain, his only comfort a

shot of rum poured into his gasping mouth by the

lob lolly-boy, followed immediately by a filthy

leather strap.

Doctor Fogarty, his apron stained crimson withthe blood of the wounded, operated in near total

darkness.

29



Hatred is the key

He cut into the wounded seaman's groin and

using a wide bladed scarifying gouge, removed

the musket ball from his misshapen body before

closing the wound and turning his attention to the

next patient.

Henry Wilkes lay on the operating table in

severe shock, his whole body convulsed with pain.

The Doctor moved closer and realizing that time

was running out grasped the injured seaman's

mangled left leg and sawed clumsily through it

releasing a fountain of blood. His procedure

complete, he threw what was left of the leg in the

nearby “wings and limbs tub,” straightened his

back, paused briefly and shook his head in

despair.

The Captain approached the dying seaman,

pushed the greasy and singed hair from his eyes

and stroked his powder stained forehead gently.‘You did well, Mister Wilkes,’ he said.

Henry Wilkes tried to raise his head but

slumped back and with his last breath spoke as he

exhaled, ‘he… he… he knew me name.’

30



Graham Sclater

The Captain caringly lowered Henry's eyelids,

‘you did well.’ He sighed and briefly closed his

eyes in prayer before he continued. ‘Let me know

the bill, Doctor Fogarty,’ he said softly.

31



Hatred is the key

Chapter two

In the moonless night, small groups of gunners

and crew sat on deck and sang sea shanties, while

the Marines chattered animatedly amongst

themselves discussing every part of the earlier

battle and their resounding victory.

The music suddenly stopped as Captain Sleepflanked by Isaac Hartman and a pained Charles

Baron appeared on deck. Captain Sleep, his left

arm and shoulder heavily bandaged walked

awkwardly towards them. ‘Another tot of rum for

my most excellent crew, Mister Baron,’ said the

Captain as he forced a pained smile. ‘You did well

lads… real well,’ he said with a smile.

32



Graham Sclater

The ship erupted and he waited patiently until

the furore had subsided. ‘Make a heading for

Plymouth, Mister Hartman,’ he said.

‘Sir!’ replied Isaac, his voice quivering with

emotion.

‘Three cheers for Captain Sleep!’ shouted

Charles Baron, as he waved his arms high above

him.

The whole crew erupted again but this time

they cheered and whistled with new found vigour.

Captain Sleep, his arm hanging awkwardly in the

blood-soaked sling, sat at his oak desk and

compiled his log. Isaac Hartman, followed by

Thomas Irwin flanked by two Marines, knocked

and entered the cabin. While Isaac stepped back

into the shadows, the Marines thrust Thomas

towards the Captain's desk directing him to stand

to attention.

33



Hatred is the key

The Captain continued to write for several

minutes before he stood and in obvious pain,

turned his back on Thomas and the Marines.

Suddenly he spun around and grim faced stared

directly at Thomas. ‘Well, Mister Irwin,’ he stopped

suddenly and nodded slowly. ‘Um… I feel we

have a problem,’ he said.

‘Problem?’ queried Thomas nervously. He

paused. ‘Why?’ he asked cockily.

‘What did you say, Mister?’ spat Captain Sleep

with rage. ‘And address me in the correct

manner, man,’ he boomed.

Thomas stiffened and for the first time he could

feel the Captain's anger. He coughed nervously.

‘Um… I said I don't see why… Captain….’ He

coughed again. ‘Sir,’ he mumbled.’

‘Did you realise they had lowered their colours,

man?’ Captain Sleep paused and subconsciouslytapped his fingers on his desk until he finally

slammed his fists down hard. ‘They surrendered

to us!’ he boomed.

‘Yes, Captain… but he could have killed me….’

34



Graham Sclater

Thomas Irwin waited for a response but there

was none and twitching nervously he continued.

‘Did you expect me to wait for him to put a ball in

me?’ he snapped.

The Captain grunted and sniggered. ‘That

might have been a good thing, Mister Irwin.’ He

tried to straighten up but the pain was too great.

‘You, Mister Irwin, have blood on your hands…’ his

stare cutting right through him. ‘You sir, will be

court marshalled as soon as we reach Plymouth.’

‘Court marshalled? How can that be…? I'm a

civilian.’ he countered.

‘On my ship, Mister Irwin… you… you… will be

treated like every other member of my crew,’ he

screamed.

Isaac Hartman smirked, nodded in agreement,

looked across at the Marines and then at Thomas

Irwin.‘My father won't agree to that,’ spluttered

Thomas.

35



Hatred is the key

The Captain shuffled slowly towards him and

stood within a few inches of Thomas Irwin's

sweating face, his lips quivering with anger.

‘Didn't you hear what I said, man?’ You're on

board at your father's request. This is my ship and

you are under my command.’ He snarled. ‘Do you

honestly expect me to afford you special

treatment?’ He paused, before suddenly

exploding. ‘Your father has absolutely no say in

how I run my ship! Do you understand that…,

Mister Irwin?’ He took a deep breath and a look of

utter revulsion crossed his face. ‘Take him away!’

he screamed.

‘You bastard!’ screamed Thomas Irwin. ‘You

can't do this to me. My father will have you

flogged,’ he said defiantly.

Captain Sleep lowered himself awkwardly into

his seat and spoke in a soft voice, ‘twentylashes….’ He slowly tapped his desk with his index

finger. ‘Just get him out of my sight,’ he said

quietly.

The Marines stepped forward, grabbed Thomas

and dragged him screaming out of the cabin. TheCaptain, his fist clenched tightly in anger,

motioned to Isaac to sit.

36



Graham Sclater

‘Take a glass with me, Mister Hartman.’

‘Aye, that would be very welcome, sir… being

so many miles from home, sir,’ he sighed.

Captain Sleep reached across to the ornate

decanter and awkwardly poured two glasses of

cognac. He passed the first glass to Isaac.

‘Plymouth, Mister Hartman, Plymouth,’ he said

quietly.

They both sipped slowly and smiled.

‘In a few weeks, we'll be within sight of

England, Mister Hartman,’ he said, reflecting.

‘To be honest with you, sir, it can't come soon

enough,’ said Isaac. ‘What with the new baby.’ He

sighed. ‘I wish I could have seen her….’ He

reflected, ‘been there, sir.’

The Captain smiled broadly. ‘She's probably

not got her sea legs yet, Mister Hartman.’ He

pushed himself into his chair, deep in thought, hismind elsewhere, until he heard the muffled music,

and smiled softly.

‘There is still time… still time.’

37



Hatred is the key

Whilst many of the crew worked feverishly to

repair the rigging, sails and damaged deck they

stopped briefly and stood to watch as the two

Marines dragged an ashen faced Thomas Irwin up

onto deck. The grating was set up on end and

tied against the mainmast and Thomas was

stripped to the waist and lashed to it.

‘The tail if you please, Mister Baron,’ asked a

smirking Mister Fincham.

Charles Baron passed him the torturous

instrument and the Master Gunner, flexed his

muscles. He cracked the cat o' nine tails on the

deck and stood waiting for the signal from Captain

Sleep. The Captain twitched his instruction and

Thomas Irwin screamed out in agony as the first

flail of the cat cut deep into his soft pale flesh.

‘You have no right to do this to me, this is a

grave injustice,’ he cried.In a futile attempt of compassion he turned his

head to the Captain and waited for him to

intervene.

Isaac Hartman looked towards his Captain but

there was no reaction. ‘Continue, Mister Fincham,’ordered Captain Sleep in a firm voice.

38



Graham Sclater

The Master Gunner pulled back the cat o' nine

tails and struck out.

The crew counted loudly until all twenty lashes

had been administered with great precision to the

deeply lacerated and bleeding back of a now

unconscious Thomas Irwin.

Two crewmen stepped forward, cut him down

and dragged him across the deck.

The wounded prisoners beneath deck,

including a severely wounded and bleeding

Captain Coombes, lay uncomfortably, cramped

conditions shackled to each other. The ship sped

towards England and away from their homeland

and in the tense atmosphere they felt every wave

as the ship crashed through them.

Miles Longman, Joshua Amos and Moses

Reading were shackled to two white crewmen and

had listened in silence to the screams of ThomasIrwin. It was strangely bizarre for them to hear a

white man taking a beating rather than

themselves.

‘What's yer name, boy?’ asked Ram Barley.

Miles Longman was thinking of his wife andyoung children and didn’t hear him.

39



Hatred is the key

‘You, boy,’ shouted Ram, pointing directly at

Miles.

Benjamin Beck nudged him and a shocked

Miles jumped and attempted to stand but the

chains pulled him awkwardly backwards.

‘I said, what's yer name boy?’ Ram Barley

screwed up his face and continued, ‘not too

difficult a question for you is it?’ he asked.

‘Miles, massa,’ stuttered the wounded slave.

‘Miles Longman.’

‘Well, Miles Longman.’ A smile crossed his face

and he continued in his strong southern drawl,

‘I'm very pleased to have made your

acquaintance… I owe you a great many thanks,’

he said.

The confused slave stared back at him.

Ram Barley coughed and held his ribs before

he replied. ‘For saving ma life, boy,’ he said.‘Tank ya, massa, I wuz doin' wha' any a dem

God fearin' mon would hadda dun,’ said Miles,

finding it hard to hide his embarrassment.

40



Graham Sclater

Dylan Chipp stiffened. ‘Saving your life…,’ he

cursed. ‘What was the point of that? We're all

going to die down here anyhow.’ He pointed at

Miles before turning to Ram Barley. ‘He only

postponed the day for you… you'll soon be wishin'

he'd left you there. At least you'd have been at

peace by now.’ He slowly took in the prisoners

around him. ‘Just look at us,’ he murmured.

Charles Francis, a middle-aged man who had

spent most of his life in the Deep South became

agitated. ‘How comes you're talking to a nigger

like that? They ain't no Mister where I come

from… them's just plain slaves… boy.’ He glared

across at Miles and sniggered.

‘That's why he would have left you to die,’

screamed Ram Barley. ‘You should treat people

with some respect and then maybe….’ He lowered

his voice, ‘just maybe you'll get out of here alive.Who knows… perhaps in one piece?’ He smirked

as he leaned his head against the hull.

Not wishing to draw attention to himself,

Joshua Amos nervously reached up and slowly

wiped the sweat from his pock marked face.

41



Hatred is the key

Dylan Chipp suddenly snapped. ‘Just let me out

of here,’ he screamed. ‘I shouldn't be down here

with these bastards. I'm not a fighter,’ he said

angrily.

Peter Beck, Benjamin's older brother,

straightened his wire rimmed spectacles and

spoke out. ‘Who cares? You're stuck with us for

the duration, Mister Chipp, sir, and I would

suggest you get used to your newly discovered

world.’

While they sniggered loudly the American

Captain moaned in pain and tried to move but

slumped back unconscious.

The crewmen dragged a semi-conscious

Thomas Irwin towards them and dropped him

heavily to bleed into the deck.

Dylan Chipp suddenly became agitated and

screamed at them. ‘Can't you get me out of here? This war has nothing to do with me!’

42



Graham Sclater

The nearest crewman moved unexpectedly and

hit Dylan across the head causing his split lobe to

reopen and spew blood everywhere. The

crewman grabbed at Dylan’s hair and twisted his

head in the direction of Thomas Irwin. ‘Shut up or

you'll be flogged like 'im.’ He laughed loudly and

walked away.

In the darkness Captain Coombes took one last

breath and died.

The next morning the crew and American

prisoners assembled on deck and a handful of

them nervously laid the body of Captain Coombes

on a plank and draped it with the American flag.

Captain Sleep said a few words, the plank was

tilted and the body slid silently in to the sea. The

American prisoners couldn't hide their emotion

any longer and as they wiped their eyes they

turned their anger in the direction of theshamefaced Thomas Irwin.

‘Cold blooded murderer!’ shouted Dylan Chipp.

As the anger began to grow amongst the

American prisoners they suddenly began to chant

in unison. ‘Murderer… murderer… murderer!’ theyscreamed.

43



Hatred is the key

Fearing for his life Thomas Irwin let out a

tormented scream that echoed across the vast

expanse of ocean.

Captain Sleep, a seasoned campaigner of many

battles, knew it could so easily have been him,

swallowed hard. ‘Back to your stations, men,’ he

ordered.

‘Aye aye, sir… let's get some more sail on her,’

yelled Isaac Hartman as he carefully folded up the

flag and passed it to one of the American

prisoners who tucked it surreptitiously inside his

shirt.

While the crew rushed around the deck and

climbed up into the rigging, carrying out repairs,

Dylan Chipp sidled up to Captain Sleep. ‘Captain,

I'm rich. Can't you release me at the nearest

port?’ He began to sweat profusely as desperation

got the better of him. ‘I'm rich… I… I… shouldn'tbe here…. He looked around shook his head and

continued. ‘I'm a civilian.’ He lowered his voice to

a whisper, ‘I'll make it worth your while.’

Captain Sleep looked across to him, ‘What are

you saying, man? Don't you know we're at war? You were on the ship of our enemy.’

44



Graham Sclater

Dylan stuttered, ‘well yes… but I'm not….’ He

inhaled deeply, ‘this goddamn war's nothing to do

with me.’

‘Take 'im away, Mister Hartman,’ the Captain

boomed.

‘Clap the impudent beggar in chains until we

dock in Plymouth.’

‘You heard the Captain. Take him away,’

ordered Isaac Hartman.

A trio of Marines immediately grabbed Dylan

and marched him across the deck screaming,

before dragging him below.

The sky that had been clear an hour earlier gave

way to dark heavy rain laden clouds and within

minutes the strong westerly wind whipped up the

sea sending huge waves crashing across the

decks.

45



Hatred is the key

Deep in the bowels of the ship Doctor Fogarty

struggled to keep awake as he worked and tried

to administer some semblance of medical

treatment to the dozens of injured men who still

continued to moan and cry out in pain. He

couldn't fail to notice that the extreme roll of the

ship now made use of the makeshift operating

table extremely precarious.

The Captain was taking a well earned rest in

his cabin when Charles Baron knocked and

entered, such informality having been previously

agreed due to the Captain's injury.

‘Captain Sleep, sir, storm up ahead.’ He

cleared his throat. ‘Looks like a bad one, sir,’ he

said.

‘You know what to do,’ replied the Captain

taking a breath before continuing. ‘I'll be up to

join you shortly,’ he replied in a pained voice.‘Yessir!’ said Charles Baron as he rushed

through the still open door.

The ship listed heavily and below deck in

almost total darkness the prisoners nervously

awaited the impending storm. Dylan Chipp shookand nervously chewed at his fingers. He suddenly

snapped and cried out. ‘We're all gonna die!

46



Graham Sclater

Guards! Guards!’ He waited for a reaction, there

was none. With that, a surge of gushing ice cold

sea crashed over him and the other prisoners. ‘At

least give us some sort of chance,’ he spluttered.

The ship began to take on water as the now

gigantic waves crashed across the decks.

Battered by heavy rain and the storm force winds

the crew high in the rigging fought to gather and

tie the sails.

Captain Sleep, his cloak wrapped loosely

around him and still in great pain, clung on to the

bridge with one hand.

47



Hatred is the key

The boatswain shouted up to him, ‘we'm gonna

need some more 'elp 'ere, Captain.’ He was

immediately swamped by a huge wave and shook

his head before he continued. ‘That is if we'm

gonna 'ave any chance of gettin' thro' this un.’

‘Mister Hartman, bring up the prisoners,’ said

the Captain. He deliberated before he continued,

‘no… only the able bodied men. I don't wish to

lose any more of 'em.’ He motioned to the

boatswain, ‘you help him, Mister.’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the boatswain proudly.

The fittest of the American prisoners made

their way on deck followed by a terrified Dylan

Chipp who upon seeing the huge waves shook

violently. ‘What do you expect me to do?’ he

chattered with absolute fear.

‘Take the rope and lash down the sail,’

screamed Peter Beck.

48



Graham Sclater

Dylan made his way towards the flapping sail

but a fierce gust of wind caught him and he was

dragged along the deck and over the side. He

screamed out with pain as the rope cut into his

soft hands. Moses Reading slid along the deck and

after tying a rope around his waist effortlessly

pulled Dylan back onto deck. He reached inside

his boot, removed a knife and cut a much relieved

Dylan Chipp free. His relief was short lived as the

storm reached its peak and a loose piece of

timber, damaged in the battle and not yet

replaced, crashed down beside him and the torn

sails flapped deafeningly around him.

Dylan, whimpering with shock ran below deck

to examine his heavily bleeding and painful

hands.

Captain Sleep moved closer to Isaac Hartman.

‘We've done all we can, Mister Hartman.’ Hestruggled to speak as the gale took his breath

away. ‘Just pray she blows herself out,’ he

mouthed.

‘Yessir,’ he replied, pulling his cape tightly

around his drenched uniform.

49



Hatred is the key

Throughout the night the damaged ship was at

the mercy of the storm and at first light Captain

Sleep and his crew surveyed the damage. The

sails were carefully examined and those still in

good order were carefully hoisted up the

makeshift rigging and while other members of the

crew cleared the debris from the decks, the

carpenters carried out repairs to the masts.

‘I reckon we've been extremely lucky, Mister

Hartman,’ said a pale and exhausted Captain as

he looked out on to a calm sea. ‘How is it she be

so evil one day and a beauty to behold the next,

eh Mister Hartman?’

Isaac sighed heavily and slowly nodded his

agreement.

The American prisoners under the surveillance

of the Marines walked slowly onto a section of the

cleared deck and nodded thankfully up to theCaptain, who bowed his head in recognition of

their gratitude.

A flock of gulls circled the ship squawking

excitedly. Captain Sleep looked up at them and

smiled. ‘We are close to the end of what has beena very torturous journey, Mister Hartman,’ he said

thankfully.

50



Graham Sclater

The crew cheered loudly but the American

prisoners were unable to share their excitement

or to hide their fear of what lay ahead.

51



Hatred is the key

Chapter three

The gleaming barouche carrying Judith Sleep,

Rachel Hartman and Emily rattled its way across

the moor and down into Yelverton, past clusters of

stone cottages and through Plymouth towards the

dock.

‘I trust Isaac will love Emily,’ asked Rachel

nervously.

52



Graham Sclater

‘Why shouldn't he? She's absolutely beautiful,

a credit to you both,’ said Judith. ‘I wish we had

had children,’ she said looking sad. ‘But the

Captain didn't seem to have interest in them.’

She glanced briefly across at little Emily, smiled

and then gazed longingly out of the window.

The damaged Raytheon limped slowly along the

Devon coast, into Plymouth Sound, up the

Hamoaze and into the River Tamar passing

dilapidated hulks El Firm, Le Caton, Genereux,

Ganges, Vanguard and Europe, now all used as

prison ships. It moored temporarily alongside the

Le Brave, the HQ of Prison Ships, and Captain

Edward Hawkins, Superintendent of Prisons and

Prison ships, boarded with his Marines.

He was greeted by a very relieved Captain

Sleep who handed him a list of prisoners-of-war.

‘A tough campaign, Captain Sleep?’ he asked.

The Captain looked directly at him and grinned.

‘You could say that, Captain,’ he said his face

haggard and pained.

53



Hatred is the key

Captain Hawkins looked across at the

prisoners, smiled a broad smile and licked his lips.

‘We'll take care of 'em now, Captain.’ He paused.

‘Your work is done.’

A group of hardened militia from the

Shropshire Regiment waited impatiently for the

Americans to disembark and as their charges left

the Raytheon for the last time they herded them

onto the filthy, stinking deck of the San Pareil. The

Spanish ship was captured off Ferrol in 1805 and

had been used as a prison ship in the Tamar since

1810.

‘Let's be 'avin' yer!’ yelled the first militiaman,

as he jabbed his bayonet forcefully into Dylan

Chipp's fat belly.

‘Get a move on or you'll feel me steel!’ yelled

another.

Dylan Chipp shook his head, ‘Coombes wassuch a lucky bastard,’ he said, moaning as he

staunched the bleeding.

54



Graham Sclater

The prisoners-of-war were processed and any

marks or scars were carefully examined and the

information documented before they were issued

with a hammock, a straw filled palliasse, a bolster,

blanket, jacket, waistcoat, trousers, shirt, shoes,

stockings and a handkerchief.

Again Dylan Chipp complained profusely

accepting only a hammock and bedding and

choosing to wear his own ripped and bloodied suit,

stockings and shoes.

On the quayside there was understandable

excitement as the families waited to welcome

their loved ones. The screams, of those saddened

by the news that their loved ones would not be

returning home, were muted by the whoops of

delight from the lucky ones.

Traders mixed with the crowd and street sellers

touted hot chestnuts, freshly baked bread and

seafood while fire eaters and jugglers performed

to a captive audience.

55



Hatred is the key

Squire Robert Irwin impeccably dressed but

clearly overweight stood proudly waiting for his

son. Close by Judith Sleep and Rachel Hartman

with baby Emily waited in anticipation for their

husbands. They had received correspondence a

week earlier and knew their husbands would be

returning safely but Captain Sleep had kept the

letter brief giving no indication of his injuries.

The Raytheon glided into the Sound and tied

up alongside the Barbican quay. The same quay

that had seen the Pilgrim Fathers leave England

aboard the Mayflower for the New World on 6th of

September 1620.

‘C'mon lads, let's drink Plymouth dry,’ shouted

the boatswain. ‘The quicker we put the sails to

bed the quicker we get ashore.’

‘Yes, sir!’ shouted the crew in unison.

Thomas Irwin tried to straighten his twistedand aching body but, still in obvious pain, set foot

awkwardly onto the quayside and shuffled

apprehensively towards his father.

‘What's the matter with you, son?’ asked

Squire Irwin. ‘Are you wounded? Have you seenaction?’ he asked anxiously.

56



Graham Sclater

‘Sir, I had an accident,’ replied Thomas

flinching nervously.

‘Accident…? What sort of accident?’ enquired

the Squire, spluttering with rage.

Thomas shook his head and continued to stare

at the floor. ‘Take me away from him!’ he

mumbled. He pointed across to Captain Sleep who

ably assisted by Charles Baron and Isaac Hartman

made his way uncertainly along the quay.

Judith Sleep ran across to her husband. ‘Are

you all right?’ she asked fearfully.

Captain Sleep kissed her softly on the

forehead. ‘I'll be fine…,’ he murmured trying to

reassure her but she shook uncontrollably. He

continued in a tired voice. ‘Rest… I just need

some rest that's all.’

Squire Irwin pushed his way through the crowd

and made his way towards Captain Sleep. ‘Sir,what have you done to my son?’ he cried.

Isaac Hartman pushed him aside. ‘Let me help

you, Captain,’ he pleaded and with the help of

Charles Baron and two of his crew bundled him

unceremoniously into the carriage. Judith stared at him in disbelief.

57



Hatred is the key

‘Never mind,’ said Captain Sleep as he shook

his head slowly. ‘The young….’ His voiced faded

as he winced in pain.

‘Let's go home,’ he said softly.

Isaac joined Judith, Rachel, Emily and the

Captain in their carriage, leaving mayhem and

waves of mixed emotions behind as the good and

sad news filtered slowly through the crowded

quayside.

The barouche made its way across the moor

and the occupants sat in a strange silence until it

stopped outside the converted longhouse that was

now Isaac's home.

‘Goodbye, Isaac,’ said Judith. She looked

across at her husband and then turned to Isaac.

‘Goodbye, Mrs Sleep,’ said Isaac, before

turning to the Captain. ‘Get some rest, Captain,’

he paused and gently touched his Captain's arm.‘I shouldn't give any heed to that matter, sir.’

Mrs Sleep smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed.

The Captain nodded and waved the driver on.

The carriage made its way across the moor and

travelled for nearly an hour before drivingbeneath an impressive carved granite arch and

turning into a long gravel drive.

58



Graham Sclater

An Irish wolfhound appeared from nowhere and

instinctively knowing his master was on board

chased excitedly after the carriage until it reached

the family home.

The vast estate of Bellever Park covered more

than three hundred and twenty acres of moorland

and was within reach of Ashburton, Plymouth and

Tavistock. The estate was considered to be one of

the most prestigious properties on the moor. His

prize money had been substantial and Captain

Sleep decided to construct the stylish property he

had constantly dreamed of during his many years

at sea.

The Captain had his home designed by an

Exeter architect based on a property he had

frequented in the West Indies and although that

had been constructed of timber, due to the

location and availability of materials, his Dartmoorresidence was built from local granite with timber

from the best Devonshire forests.

The carriage pulled to a halt immediately in

front of the imposing main entrance and the

Captain and his wife were welcomed by theirmembers of staff who stood apprehensively on

the wide granite steps.

59



Graham Sclater

The open fire blazed in the master bed chamber

and as Judith carefully removed the blood sodden

bandages from her husband she drew her head

back in alarm at the foul smell of rotting flesh.

‘This is very badly infected Jonas, we need to do

something about it or I fear you will lose your

arm,’ she said.

The Captain looked up at her. ‘So be it,’ he said

softly.

A young woman in her early twenties, and the

much older hunchbacked man, entered the

impressive hall. They acknowledged Mrs Sleep

with a knowing nod before they followed her in

silence up the heavily carved sweeping staircase.

They stared in awe at the sheer size of the vast oil

paintings of beautiful naval ships, sea battles and

Captain Sleep's nautical ancestors that filled the

walls. They stopped on the half landing and

gazed up at the painting of Horatio Nelson

carefully positioned to look down on everyone

who climbed the imposing staircase. The

hunchbacked man nodded with pride before

continuing to the landing where Mrs Sleep guided

them to the door of the master bed chamber.

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Hatred is the key

They entered the sun drenched room and

acknowledged the Captain with a slow knowing

nod. The man placed the snakeskin bag on a

table beside the bed while the woman carefully

removed the soiled linen from the Captain's

shoulder and chest. They stood back reflecting

before the woman proceeded to remove a jar from

the bag and with great precision placed a handful

of maggots directly onto the gaping gangrenous

wound. She mentally noted the position of the

shadow on the wall and nodded to the man.

While the maggots gorged on the rotting flesh

and cleaned the wound the man sat and waited

patiently, looking first around the large beautifully

furnished room before he stood and moved

towards the huge bay window and gazed out

across the moor.

The woman re-checked the position of theshadow on the wall, walked across to the bed,

removed the maggots, examined the wound and

gave a congratulatory smile to the man and Mrs

Sleep. The man removed a glass phial containing

an orange liquid and passed it to the woman whodripped it carefully onto the wound, covered it

with sphagnum moss, and applied a new dressing.

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Graham Sclater

‘'Ee should feel betta zun, madam,’ she said as

she closed the bag.

She finally looked up at Mrs Sleep and spoke

in a soft voice. ‘'Ee be very lucky man, looks like

the ball missed 'is lung be less dan inch. 'Ee needs

as much rest as possible and ee'll be right as rain

'gin,’ she said with a confident smile.

The man picked up the bag and they made

their way towards the bedroom door.

‘Thank you,’ said Judith as she looked across at

her husband. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said

softly.

She pulled the crisp white sheets over her

husband's shoulders and tiptoed out of the room.

Moans and groans filled the toxic air as the

American prisoners dragged their naked and

swollen feet along the cramped, dark, stinking

lower deck, putrid water and urine dripping onto

them as they searched for the impossible clean,

dry space.

‘If they keep us down 'ere for long we're all

going to die,’ said an overwhelmed Peter Beck.

‘They'll soon have me out. My partners won't

leave me here to rot,’ said Dylan with a wry smile.

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Hatred is the key

A prisoner deep in the darkness laughed loudly

and coughed. ‘Once they shove you in 'ere no

one cares if ya lives or dies,’ he said.

‘They will!’ screamed Dylan in denial.

‘We'm all equal in 'ere,’ shouted another.

‘Yeah, that's as maybe but I am!’ he fumed. ‘In

New Orleans everyone knows, Dylan Chipp.’

‘Well then… why is you still 'ere?’ asked the

invisible mocking stranger.

The slaves looked on in silence.

Protected from the cold wind and warmed by the

bright sun Captain Sleep sat in the conservatory

smoking his longpipe. He was surrounded by the

huge palms and exotic flowering plants he had

collected during his numerous overseas

campaigns.

His dog rushed in, followed by Judith carrying a

highly decorated teapot, and matching cups and

saucers on a silver tray.

‘You seem so much better today, Joshua,’ said

Judith with a smile.

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Graham Sclater

The Captain gently patted his dog and nodded

slowly. ‘Yes my dear, I do.’ He looked around the

room and took in his surroundings before he

continued. ‘It's been so wonderful to sleep in a

real bed for the past weeks.’

While Judith poured the tea, he gazed across

the moor and smiled to himself. He couldn't resist

the dramatic view of the nearby Tor jutting up like

a huge precious stone towards the clear blue sky

and the sparkling stream in the valley below. He

watched as a timid deer made its way cautiously

onto the gravel at the waters edge and looked

furtively in every direction before bending to drink

the clear slow flowing water.

A number of Marines and militiamen walked

menacingly out of the shadows. ‘Come on let's

'ave 'ee. You be leavin' us,’ screamed one of

them.

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Hatred is the key

Dylan Chipp got awkwardly to his feet, his

ulcerated legs weak from the long weeks of

inactivity below deck. ‘I told you I'd be out of

here.’ He said forcing a smile. ‘My friends haven't

forgotten me after all,’ he said, bragging

arrogantly as he attempted to straighten his filthy

jacket.

The other prisoners slowly helped each other to

stand and cowered nervously together in groups.

The guards kicked out at several of them. ‘Not

you! Stay where you are! You ain't goin'

nowhere!’ they screamed.

One of them fell awkwardly on the deck and

sniggered at those standing. ‘If I was you I

wouldn't be smiling.’ He spat at them. ‘If you fink

this is bad…,’ his grin broadened, ‘then you's just

wait.’

‘Bring yer hammocks and follow me,’ orderedthe Marine Sergeant.

Before any of them could ask why, they were

shepherded towards the light.

‘Move along there… you Yankee bastards,’

screamed the Militiaman.

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Peter and Benjamin Beck, Miles Longman,

Moses Reading, Joshua Amos, Ram Barley, Charles

Francis, Dylan Chipp and Sylas, the young boy,

along with a number of other prisoners were

marched along the deck passing hundreds of very

sick and dying prisoners-of-war.

As they made their way up onto the slimy

rotten deck the sun temporarily blinded them and

for the first time they were able to gaze at the

green rolling hills of Devonshire. A feeling of

euphoria took over as they were each handed

their daily allowance of bread and fish.

Nothing could be as bad as the hellhole they'd

lived in for the past few weeks.

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Hatred is the key

68



Graham Sclater

Chapter four

The extended entourage of two hundred American

prisoners-of-war, guarded by a similar number of

militiamen, Marines and mounted guards, made

its way out of the docks. They were soon out of

Plymouth and after turning onto the new road at

the Rock they had more than fifteen miles to walk

until they reached their destination.

The prisoners, in their newly issued shoes,

walked uncomfortably along the dirt road until

they began to climb up onto the moor. They

smiled with relief and broke into song as they

looked back at the run of the Tamar and the hulks

that had been their home for the past weeks.

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Hatred is the key

Peter Beck cleaned his glasses, with his new

handkerchief and, after replacing them, tilted his

head back and took a deep breath. ‘This is some

beautiful place,’ he said.

Benjamin took an equally deep breath and

spoke as he exhaled. ‘It sure is,’ he replied in a

much relieved voice.

Joshua and Dylan took up the rear, shackled

together to the cart which carried everyone's

meagre belongings and the young boy, Sylas, who

had been permitted to travel in style.

Dylan coughed deeply and then shook his head

in disgust. ‘I just don't believe what they're doing

to me,’ he screamed. ‘And shackled to my own

slave!’ his voice cracking in anger.

‘Shut up!’ screamed the nearest militiaman, as

he spiked him with his bayonet. ‘Keep walkin' we

don't 'ave no slaves 'ere in England,’ he saidproudly.

‘But we got prisoners,’ laughed a guard.

‘Thousand's of 'em,’ laughed another.

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Graham Sclater

The going became more difficult as the

precarious uneven track and the sharp rocky

outcrops broke through the heather and gorse,

plentiful in the acid rich soil, cutting deep into

their legs and ankles.

They stopped briefly beside a clapper bridge to

eat their meagre rations of fish and bread, resting

amongst the tall fern sheaves that waved gently

in the late summer breeze.

A sparrow hawk cruised above the hedge-tops

before diving suddenly to ensnare a skylark.

‘He's some lucky bastard,’ mumbled Peter

Beck, as he watched the hawk fly off into the

distance with its prey.

The exhausted prisoners-of-war stopped to rest

in the last valley before the moorland was to rise

high above them. They sat and gazed at the

crystal clear stream as it ran silently over therocks and down towards the Tamar and Dart.

Suddenly feeling thirsty, Ram Barley stood up.

‘I need a drink,’ he shouted.

The Marine pointed towards the stream. ‘Drink

that!’ he ordered.

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Hatred is the key

Ram made a move towards the stream but

forgot that he was shackled to Peter Beck and was

jolted backwards. ‘Come on, man,’ he cursed.

Peter Beck slowly got to his feet and they

shuffled awkwardly towards the stream.

Ram Barley knelt down, and cupping his dry

hands, thrust them deep into the water before

gulping it down his parched throat. He looked

across at the Marines. ‘Tastes like heaven after

that foul smelling piss on the hulk,’ he exclaimed

smugly.

He leant forward again and this time plunged

his head deep into the freezing water and shook it

with pleasure. It was short lived as his body

reacted to the cold and he shivered

uncontrollably.

Smiling to himself, the Sergeant climbed back

on his horse. His face suddenly changed. ‘On yerfeet!’ he ordered. ‘That is, if you don't wanna

spend the night out 'ere.’

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Graham Sclater

High on the moor Harold Thomson, a well built

man, his long hair tied back in a ponytail, worked

inside the open building smelting the tin ore. The

bellows blew noisily into the furnace fanning the

flames while the water wheel turned slowly

powered by the stream which ran immediately

alongside the single storey granite building.

While one labourer broke down the larger

stones, another labourer cracked at the smaller

stones with a heavy iron stamp, and another two

sieved the small pieces in the shallow stream.

The sweat ran down Harold Thomson's heavily

muscled arms and shoulders as he poured the

molten tin from the vat into the large moulds held

by the labourers. Sensing the impending darkness

he stopped what he was doing and rushed out into

the farmyard. He looked towards the Tor. ‘Get

them animals in,’ he shouted. ‘There's a stormbrewing,’ he said confidently.

His teenage daughters, Henrietta and Alex,

heeded his instruction and chased the sheep

towards the barn, while their dogs yapped

excitedly at their heels.

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Hatred is the key

The eldest, Henrietta, who had recently

celebrated her nineteenth birthday, pulled at her

much younger sister. ‘Come on Alex… give me a

hand will yer? You knows I can't do this on me

own,’ she said as she stretched out and closed the

wooden gates to the pen.

The sun was suddenly obliterated by thick

clouds rolling off the hills and within minutes a

thick fog descended enveloping them and

everything on the moor.

The temperature fell dramatically and the

prisoners-of-war were soon shivering. The cold

began to bite into their bones and a sombre mood

took hold as they realised they had been cheated.

‘Get a move on!’ screamed a Marine. ‘That is

unless you wanna be lost in this Godforsaken

place,’ shouted a mounted guard now invisible in

the dense fog.

In the darkness they stumbled and tripped as

they desperately tried to continue along the

potholed track.

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Graham Sclater

Suddenly they heard blood curdling screams

and a pathetic figure dressed in a torn yellow

uniform appeared from nowhere. ‘ Au secours… Au

secours!’ screamed the terrified stranger in a

ghastly high pitched voice. But before he could

utter another word he disappeared back into the

fog.

The stunned column ground to a halt and

without any warning a pack of more than a dozen

crazed hunting hounds rushed past them in

pursuit of the Frenchman. A grey horse of some

seventeen hands carrying a bearded giant of a

man raced out of the fog and thundered towards

them veering off at the last minute in the direction

of his prey.

‘Get out of my way, scum!’ bawled the rider as

he passed them, whipping his horse

indiscriminately. The militiamen acknowledged the rider and

cheered excitedly until a few minutes later the ear

piercing and blood curdling screams of the hunted

man and yapping dogs confirmed they had caught

their quarry and were tearing him apart. The prisoners, shocked by what they had

witnessed suddenly broke rank.

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Hatred is the key

‘Get back in line!’ screamed the Marines.

They began firing indiscriminately; their rifles

lowered as they jabbed their bayonets

threateningly towards the prisoners puncturing

their exposed skin. The prisoners' anguish was

compounded by an earth-shattering crack of

thunder immediately above them accompanied by

torrential rain which hammered their already

weak and exhausted bodies.

Thick mud now engulfed their useless footwear

and their meagre clothes clung to their freezing

bodies.

Dylan Chipp was the first to speak. ‘Can I have

these off?’ he pleaded, pointing to the manacles

that attached him to Miles Longman.

‘Keep walkin' or you'll be flogged,’ screamed

one of the Marines, taking in an unwelcome

mouthful of rain. He struck out blindly at Milesknocking him to the ground.

‘Fer sure, dis 'as ta be 'ell itself,’ mumbled

Miles.

‘Shut up or I'll 'ave you too,’ screamed the

same Marine.

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Graham Sclater

With every step more difficult than the last

they continued their pained climb ever higher

across the hostile and foreboding moor. Their

frozen bones and bodies ached and the blood

which had run from their cut feet congealed with

the thick mud the excruciating pain making it nigh

on impossible to continue walking. The fierce and

incessant jabs from their captors' bayonets

coerced them into summoning what little strength

they had to continue.

As they neared the end of their hellish journey

the rain stopped and they had their first glimpse

of the exposed grey granite buildings of the

Dartmoor depot. The surreal circular building

jutted out of the mist and stood like an island in

what was without doubt the most desolate and

wild land any of them had ever seen.

It was like that in 1783, and as far as young

Thomas Tyrwhitt and his companion could see

through the freezing rain and low cloud, there was

nothing or no living soul for miles.

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Hatred is the key

The granite plateau and towering granite

outcrops that was Dartmoor rose to dominate the

centre of Devonshire up to 2,000 feet above sea

level in what was an area of sheer desolation for

much of the year.

The riders followed the pack-horse track,

crossing the clapper bridges at Two Bridges and

up the long sloping track through the barren and

inhospitable wasteland to what was to become

the start Thomas Tyrwhitt's vision.

The young traveller's vision was somewhat

foolhardy, orange groves, orchards and beautiful

gardens, well-fed cattle roaming and grazing on

the lush grasslands and wagon loads of corn and

flax being transported down to Plymouth and

Tavistock. A far cry from what was a scattered

land of Bronze Age settlements, burial grounds

and remains of Iron Age forts, which skirted themoor.

Undeterred, Thomas, in the enviable position of

secretary to the Prince of Wales, soon realised the

first part of his dream when an Act of Parliament

was passed to construct a road for wheeled trafficfrom Moretonhampstead to Tavistock.

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Graham Sclater

By 1785, Thomas Tyrwhitt, at the tender age of

twenty three, laid out the site for his farm at Tor

Royal, a large distinctive building with its domed

lead covered roof.

At the same time he built a number of

moorland cottages, Miller's House at Trena Bridge

alongside the Blackbrook River, and an inn, the

Plume of Feathers, to accommodate many of his

workers while they worked on Tor Royal. The

designs of these properties closely resembled

buildings he had seen on his travels to Russia but

were modified to suit the exposed windswept

area.

Desperate to fulfill his dreams, Thomas spent a

small fortune in the area culminating in him

naming the new moorland town Prince's Town

after his Royal patron.

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Graham Sclater

Works to build the depot were commissioned

by the Transport Board, a sub-department of the

Admiralty, who was deemed responsible for

prisoners-of-war, the wounded and sick.

Construction of the depot commenced on 20

March 1806 when the first stone was laid by the

now knighted Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt.

Initially five prison blocks were constructed

within the Dartmoor depots own grounds of

approximately 30 acres but, due to the high

number of Napoleonic prisoners, in 1814 a further

two blocks were built by the French inmates. Each

block had two floors with strategically placed cast-

iron pillars to support the large roof timbers for

the prisoners to hang their hammocks. The newer

blocks had a third floor built into the roof or

cockloft with a wooden floor which was intended

as exercise space in severe weather. However,due to the high number of inmates, the space was

soon used to accommodate prisoners.

All the walls and buildings within it were

constructed from local granite quarried from the

nearby Herne Hole quarry, transported on cartsand towed by horses across the site on makeshift

metal tracks.

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Hatred is the key

The circular external wall constructed of huge

granite blocks towering some eighteen feet above

the ground concealed a road of almost a mile long

where the guards and militia could move

unhindered around the perimeter. A further

internal wall fifteen foot high was constructed

thirty foot inside the outer wall while in front of

that was the third deterrent, a metal palisade

some twelve foot high which surrounded the

seven prison blocks along with a series of trip

wires linked to alarm bells.

Platforms manned by sentries and

sharpshooters were strategically positioned high

on the inner wall giving them total command of

the prison without making direct contact with any

of the prisoners-of-war.

All the water needed for the depot was

supplied from a reservoir outside the prison whichin turn was fed into a round water tower near the

front gates. The supply was then released into

five leats which ran down the length of the prison

to be used by everyone to wash themselves, their

clothes, their food and to drink. The filthy foulsmelling water left the prison and onto the land of

Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt where it was used as fertilizer

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Graham Sclater

for his estate.

The Agent's residence and office, guard house,

barracks, infirmary, kitchens and associated

buildings were situated in various locations

around the depot.

The bewildered Americans made no attempt to

communicate with each other as they trudged insilence down Plymouth Hill and past the Plume of

Feathers Inn before being forcibly directed to turn

left into the central square in front of the Duchy

Hotel. A number of off duty guards sheltering

beneath the portico smoked their long pipes andwatched in knowing silence as the small group of

villagers stood jeering at the pathetic sight of

disheartened and broken Americans as they

ploughed their way through the deep muddy

furrows of the rain sodden ground.

Some of the younger children rushed forward

and taunted them until one of the women ran out

and dragged her little boy back. ‘I told 'ee

before, come away from them evil Yankees,’ she

jeered. The crowd joined her and shouted

obscenities at the prisoners. Another woman

reached into her apron pocket and fingered a

83



Hatred is the key

jagged piece of granite before throwing it at

Benjamin Beck striking him on the side of the

head.

He was too numb to feel it.

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Graham Sclater

Chapter five

The bedraggled group made its way in silence

under the carved granite arched lintol. They

stopped briefly to look up at the inscription

Parcere Subjectis chiselled in the lintol above

them but had no idea what it meant, before the

huge metal gates slowly opened and for the first

time they could see the conditions in which they

would be incarcerated.

‘Let's have yer. Stand to attention,’ screamed

Sergeant Greaves, a heavily muscled man who

smirked at them as he menacingly fingered his

bull whip.

It started to rain, a freezing rain.

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Hatred is the key

It was hard for any of them to stand unaided

let alone to attention. Instead they slouched and

leaned awkwardly against one another for

assistance and warmth, as they shivered.

The horse and rider made their way between

the gates and stood in front of the Americans as

the rain streamed from the rider's leather hat and

full length deer hide overcoat and cape. The

horse, covered in a combination of blood and thick

mud, stood sweating and fatigued surrounded by

the equally exhausted dogs who continued to bark

and run excitedly around their master.

‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Charles Francis.

‘Put 'em away!’ ordered the rider.

Several of the militia jumped to attention and

dragged the dogs away.

‘What a mean looking bastard,’ muttered

William Cole. The Sergeant cracked his whip and it wrapped

tightly around the top of William Cole's arm.

‘Shut up and listen!’ bellowed Sergeant

Greaves as he ran his hand slowly across his

shaved head, stroking the imaginary hair.William Cole could feel the blood running down

his arm but was too frightened to move.

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Graham Sclater

The rider moved close to the prisoners and

pushed back his hat. ‘Welcome to Dartmoor

depot,’ he said slowly. ‘My name is Captain

Shortland. I'm the Agent, employed by the

Transport Board, and while you are here you will

do everything I say… and… my men tell you….’

He stopped and waited for a reaction. There was

none. ‘Sergeant Greaves will issue you with a

number which will enable us to identify you. It is

to be used at all times,’ he boomed.

Sergeant Greaves nodded slowly and grinned

at each of them, his eyes cutting into their very

souls.

In the second row Peter Beck moulded his

mouth and an almost inaudible high pitched

sound emanated from his mouth. The Agent's

mount began to kick nervously at the mud as his

rider tried hard to control it. There was an extended silence before the rider

spoke.

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Hatred is the key

‘Some of you may have already considered

escape but let me tell you this.’ He paused and

smiled a wry smile. ‘You can try.’ He paused

again and waited. ‘But if you did see the Frenchie

today… then let me tell you, he escaped from the

depot.’ He looked at Sergeant Greaves and thrust

his head back. ‘But now he's dead,’ he said with

perverse pride.

Sergeant Greaves and the militiamen laughed

loudly.

The rider nodded and waited as though he had

done it many times before. ‘And let me tell you

this. If my dogs don't get you then the moor will,’

he said. He pulled a cigar from his waistcoat

pocket, bit off the end, spat it in the direction of

the Americans and took his time to light it. He

looked around at Sergeant Greaves and the militia

and smirked. ‘If my dogs get to you first I canpromise you a quick death,’ he paused and took a

huge drag on the cigar and he continued to talk

through the smoke. ‘However it's not painless.’

He took another deep drag and exhaled slowly.

‘But if you die on the moor….’ He lowered hisvoice. ‘Trust me… it will be a slow agonizing

death,’ he sniggered.

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Graham Sclater

Peter Beck lowered his head and his contorted

lips created the high pitched sound again and this

time the horse reared wildly and launched the

Agent into the air and sent him crashing into the

thick mud.

While the prisoners-of-war broke into

uncontrollable raucous laughter, Sergeant

Greaves and a handful of the militiamen rushed

forward to help him up.

‘Get away from me!’ screamed the Agent with

rage.

While he got unceremoniously to his feet he

glared at the grinning Americans. ‘If you think that

was amusing let's see who has the last laugh.’ He

swung his muddied coat across his shoulders. ‘You

Yankee bastards!’ he screamed and breathed

hard before continuing, ‘…will stay in the yard

until I find who is responsible.’As the thick freezing mist descended around

them the prisoners looked at each other in horror

their faces illuminated by the handful of oil lamps

hanging from the walls.

‘If there is the least sign of trouble from any of these vermin… flog 'em and throw 'em in the

cachot !’ raged the Captain.

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Hatred is the key

‘Yessir,’ replied Sergeant Greaves as he flexed

his muscles and cracked his whip.

Captain Shortland looked down at his distorted

cigar still smoking in the mud and kicked out

furiously before he made his way to his office.

The prisoners huddled together in a futile

attempt to keep warm. Ram Barley moaned, his

injuries compounded by the long walk and

freezing cold as the mist moved mysteriously

around the yard. ‘That was some awesome trick

there boy,’ said Ram Barley.

‘Trick, call that a trick? It was suicide. If it

weren't for that sonofabitch we wouldn't be sitting

here in this shit now,’ fumed Dylan Chipp.

‘Shut up!’ shouted Ram as he turned to Peter

Beck. ‘Tell me. Where did you learn to do

that?’ he asked.

‘Back in Kentucky,’ replied Peter timidly. Hecleaned the drizzle from his glasses and

continued. ‘I broke and trained nearly all the

horses for miles around,’ he said.

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Graham Sclater

‘He really talks to 'em… you,’ said Benjamin

stopping abruptly as a rolled up blanket hit him on

the side of the head followed by several more.

The American prisoners scrabbled around

excitedly to get their hands on one.

The prisoners opened them and wrapped them

around their shoulders.

Everyone had a blanket except Dylan Chipp.

‘Come on, can't one of you at least share a part

with me?’ he moaned.

Miles Longman was nearest to him and gave

him a long hard penetrating stare with his huge

dark eyes before slowly pulling the blanket tight

across his shoulders and onto Dylan Chipp.

Dylan looked at him but gave no hint of thanks.

In the moonlight, the shadowy figures of Squire

Irwin, Harold Thomson and two of his labourers

stood anxiously and waited on an area of beach

obscured by the overhanging cliffs. The Squire lit

his pipe and pulled the match towards his pocket

watch, flipped it open and squinted. ‘It's about

time, Mister Thomson,’ he said.

‘Yessir,’ replied Harold Thomson.

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Hatred is the key

He lit a lantern and waved it towards the sea

trying desperately to obscure it from the land. A

lantern flashed out at sea and a few minutes later

a rowing boat glided towards the shore on the

gentle waves.

The labourers pulled the craft onto the beach

and with the help of Harold Thomson feverishly

unloaded the crates, boxes and casks. Squire

Irwin motioned to one of the labourers to open

one of the casks. He tasted the contents, nodded,

and handed over a small leather purse of

sovereigns to the rower's accomplice.

While the crew dragged the boat back into the

sea Harold and the labourers turned their

attention to loading the horse drawn cart. Harold

temporarily lost his grip on the largest cask but

recovered before it hit the rocks and smashed.

‘Be careful with that will yer,’ cursed SquireIrwin in a stifled shout.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Harold before tying the

contraband onto the cart and moving off.

‘Now get on with it… and keep the noise down

or you'll have every Revenue man in the countydown on us,’ he said as he kicked the sand from

his boots before climbing onto his horse.

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Graham Sclater

The labourers carefully guided the horse and

cart up the beach and onto the coastal track.

After several hours they finally made their way

between the groups of farm outbuildings and rode

until they reached the farthest barn. They stopped

at the entrance and one of the labourers took care

to open the doors without making any sound,

unhitched the horse, and dragged the cart inside.

They unloaded the cart in silence and stowed

the crates and casks in a carefully prepared area

beneath the straw. The Squire pulled a handful of

coins from his waistcoat pocket and paid the

labourers who disappeared into what was left of

the night.

Squire Irwin tilted a cask and poured it into two

wooden cups. ‘Your good health, Mister Thomson,’

he said as he downed the cognac. ‘Not a bad

night’s work eh?’‘Indeed, sir,’ replied Harold.

They both smiled in agreement congratulating

themselves in silence while Squire Irwin reached

into his other pocket and paid Harold.

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Hatred is the key

While Harold Thomson made his way along the

lane to his waiting horse the Squire checked the

contraband was totally covered before closing the

doors and double locking them.

The summer sun began to burn through the mist

and slowly reached the prisoners who lay in a

mass of cold and wet tangled bodies. Some of themilitiamen stood guard while others walked slowly

around the yard in an attempt to keep warm.

Peter Beck sat propped against the prison wall

waiting for the door of Captain Shortland's office

to open. As soon as he saw the Captainaccompanied by Sergeant Greaves he painfully

made to get up but the nearest militiamen

immediately levelled their rifles threateningly

towards him.

‘Sir, I believe you're looking for me?’ said Peter

in a weak voice.

Captain Shortland smiled at Sergeant Greaves.

‘What did I tell you, Sergeant? They're cowards,

every last man of 'em,’ he said. ‘That's why

they're here.’

He laughed loudly.

‘Take 'em all away… except him,’ he said

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Graham Sclater

pointing aggressively at Peter. ‘Throw him in the

cachot ,’ he growled. The guards reached out,

grabbed Peter and manhandled him towards the

solid granite punishment block.

Benjamin awoke and screamed his protests as

he made to run towards the guards but was

restrained by Charles Francis and Miles Longman.

He continued to struggle and managed to break

loose and ran screaming towards Captain

Shortland.

‘Peter… what are you doing? Don't give in to

those bastards!’ he screamed.

‘Let him get on with it,’ shouted Dylan Chipp

nodding enthusiastically. ‘He deserved that, now

perhaps we’ll get something to eat and

somewhere to sleep,’ he said.

Sergeant Greaves cracked his whip and it

coiled painfully around Benjamin's ankle causinghim to fall heavily into the mud. He unwound it

and like a man possessed, turned and raced back

towards Dylan Chipp, only this time to be

restrained by Joshua and Miles.

‘Cum der, boy, we'm got plenty of dime ferdat,’ whispered Joshua Amos.

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Hatred is the key

The guards dragged Peter Beck up to the metal

clad door, waited for another guard to unlock it

before throwing him into the intense darkness and

slamming the heavy door behind him.

Peter landed heavily on the icy cold granite

floor and lay shivering and shocked.

The remaining prisoners-of-war were each

issued with a blanket, horse rug, woollen jacket,

two yellow shirts, a pair of trousers, a waistcoat, a

pair of wooden shoes and a woollen cap.

Dylan Chipp stopped and held up a yellow shirt

with the letters “TO TO” stamped on the back,

and in the centre, a thick arrow pointing upwards.

‘What the hell is this?’ he asked.

Sergeant Greaves moved towards him.

‘TOTO… is the Transport Office,’ he said as he

straightened his body and stood upright as if he

was about to the salute. ‘They run this depot anddon't you forget it,’ he said before spitting wildly

at the feet of Dylan.

Dylan Chipp took heed and led them out of the

yard through a narrow granite gateway towards

Number Three Block.

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He stopped at the foot of the steps and shook

with foreboding as he looked up at the moss

covered granite walls that loomed high above him

casting a heavy shadow across his already

shocked face. He jumped back to avoid a rush of

steaming urine and excrement that spewed from

the open channels high above him. ‘Filthy

bastards!’ he screamed.

Taking care to avoid the continuing effluent he

nervously climbed the wide granite steps and

entered the block. Narrow beams of sunlight

found their way through the small unglazed slits

cutting through the thick mist of condensation.

The inmates lay in row upon row of hammocks,

four and five high, coughing and moaning: a place

of total horror and despair.

‘What the…?’ yelled Dylan as he held his nose

in a vain attempt to reduce the stench.As his eyes became accustomed to the bad

light he screwed up his face in absolute revulsion.

He picked his way through the semi-darkness

treading in the pools of freezing water which had

run down the walls. He stepped unknowingly intoa puddle and jumped with shock as the icy water

soaked into his already wet shoes.

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Hatred is the key

‘Christ… it's disgusting,’ he moaned

despondently.

‘What the hell do you want?’ echoed a voice

from the darkness.

‘Leave us alone will ya?’ echoed another voice.

A painfully thin man swung with ease out of his

hammock and stood directly in front of Benjamin.

The prisoner tucked his armless sleeve inside his

jacket before speaking.

‘Charles Blasden, pleased to meet you,’ he said

his unshaven face partially hiding his toothless

mouth. He smiled and pointed at the empty

sleeve. ‘Don't look so bloody shocked, I've still got

the other one.’ He raised it towards Benjamin's

nose and touched his nostril. ‘I lost it at

Queenston Heights in….’ Deep in thought, he

subconsciously scratched wildly at his matted hair

and pulled out a creeper. He clicked it hardbetween his filthy nails and checked it was dead

before a smile slowly appeared on his tormented

face. ‘…October 1812, that's right, 1812,’ he said

proudly.

Dylan Chipp turned to stare at him in disbelief.‘What do you call this? They can't expect me to

stay in here,’ he said in a frenzied voice.

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Graham Sclater

The response was loud jeers which quickly built

to a crescendo filling the damp cold air.

Another prisoner swung from his hammock

knocking Dylan onto the slimy granite floor.

‘Everyone gets treated the same here,’ he

paused, ‘whoever you are,’ said Marshall

Cunningham in a strained high pitched voice. He

reached forward and held out his hand but when

Dylan noticed the jagged grotesque scar across

his throat he pulled back in disgust.

‘Please yerself, man,’ said Marshall scratching

at his bare chest. ‘You'd better get used to it,’ he

said in a high pitched voice.

He tried to count the number of new prisoners

but couldn't see. ‘How many of you's are there

anyhow?’ he asked.

Charles Francis taken aback by the strangled

voice emanating from such a large man trembledas he attempted to count the new prisoners.

‘Ffff…,’ he tried to speak but his voice faltered

and faded away.

Dylan Chipp got to his feet and spouted forth.

‘Come on man, there's fourteen of them and me.’‘Fifteen eh?’ said Marshall. He thought for a

second and pointed into the darkness. ‘You can

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Hatred is the key

sleep back there.’

‘With them?’ questioned Dylan.

While Marshall stared at him, Miles Longman,

Moses Reading, Joshua Amos and the others

pushed past him.

‘Not you's,’ shouted Marshall, pointing at the

black prisoners. ‘You three… get across to

Number Four Block with the other black bastards,’

he shouted. They stared at him in silence before

finally turning away.

‘No… hold on a minute… they belong to me,’

exclaimed Dylan.

Marshall scratched his crotch wildly.

‘All right… if they're gonna stay in this block

you look after 'em,’ he said. ‘But upstairs.’

‘Don't you three get any ideas, you still belong

to me!’ screamed Dylan Chipp.

While they ambled off Jeremiah Hatch pitchedinto the conversation from his hammock. ‘The

rest of ya had better find yerself a place or you'll

end up on the floor and believe me it's not

somewhere's even a dog would wanna be,’ he

said with a twisted smile.‘Sleep?’ screamed Dylan. ‘In here? I want to

see the Agent!!’ he continued, his face deep red

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Graham Sclater

with anger.

The inmates of the block burst into a deafening

roar of laughter.

‘I'm sorry, ma Lord,’ said a new voice behind

Dylan.

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Hatred is the key

He turned to face yet another stranger and

froze.

‘Henry Sterling at your service, ma Lord,’ said

the tortured scar faced prisoner. With one eye and

a deep socket where his other eye once was. ‘I'm

soooo sorry, ma Lord,’ he repeated. He laughed

loudly as he pulled the filthy patch over the empty

eye socket.

The new arrivals jostled for a place to hang

their hammocks and it was several minutes before

they were all able to tie them in and stow their

meagre belongings in the holes and crevices that

previous prisoners had taken many weeks or

months to cut in the granite walls and timber

beams.

As dusk approached, the prisoners sat and

waited impatiently for their first meal since

arriving at the depot. Benjamin Beck found aspace next to Jeremiah Hatch. ‘Did you get those

blankets to us?’ asked Benjamin.

‘Yeah, it's almost a ritual. Shortland tries to

wear 'em all down,’ he said taking a long drag on

his pipe. ‘We have an arrangement with one of the more amenable turnkeys.’ He sniggered.

‘They ain't all bad,’ he said.

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Marshall Cunningham and Asha Adams carried

in a large wooden bucket of steaming broth and

an armful of bread.

Dylan Chipp pushed his way to the front filled

his plate and took a sip. ‘Oargh! This tastes like

horse shit!’ He spat it out in disgust. ‘Do you

expect me to eat this?’ he moaned.

‘Get stuck in. I've bin eating it for nearly two

years and it ain't dun me no 'arm,’ said Jeremiah.

‘Speak for yerself,’ said Henry Sterling as he

turned to Dylan. ‘Ma Lord wants stewed chicken.

Is that right, ma Lord?’ he squawked.

Dylan forced a half smile in agreement and

when he realised that Henry was poking fun at

him he threw the wooden plate in his direction.

In the darkness a prisoner screamed out,

coughed hard, then choked and died.

Made visible only by the flickering light of militiaman's lamp outside the cachot Peter Beck

and his sole companion saw two plates pushed

through the eight inch square wicket in the metal

clad door. They rushed towards it, grabbed at the

bowls and ate the inedible broth voraciously.

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Hatred is the key

In Number Three Block, the prisoners lay in their

hammocks in pitch darkness, the air filled with

hopeless moaning and groaning. They knew they

were not alone, the hapless noises never stopped.

The air thick with the smell of urine and

excreta, and the condensed moisture on the

ceiling dripped down onto the top row of

hammocks while the remainder ran down the

walls and onto the freezing granite floor.

‘Marshall, are you awake?’ whispered

Benjamin.

‘Yeah, I don't get much peace in 'ere,’ replied

Marshall.

‘How long do you think they'll keep my brother

in that place?’ asked Benjamin.

‘The cachot ?’ asked Marshall reflecting.

‘Um,’ replied Benjamin.

‘Probably ten days,’ said Marshall.‘Ten days?’

A stunned Benjamin tried to sit up but,

realising he could fall out of his hammock, he

steadied himself.

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Graham Sclater

‘He might get out sooner but I doubt it after

what he did to Shortland,’ said Marshall. ‘I wished

I'd seen it,’ he laughed loudly. ‘He's lucky to still

be alive.’

‘He'll never get through that,’ said Benjamin.

‘'Course he will,’ shouted a voice from the

darkness.

‘After the third time, it gets real hard,’ said

Marshall. ‘You don't see many walk out or get

carried out alive after that.’

‘Third time, how you can just dismiss it like

that?’ he asked.

‘When you've spent as long here as we have

you can't help but be scornful… but believe me

some do come out alive,’ he said reassuringly.

‘He's sure got some space in there. The first

one was too small, what with the trouble the

Frenchies caused. Cotgrave had 'em build thatone in 1811,’ said Jeremiah.

‘Cotgrave?’ asked Benjamin.

‘He was Shortland's predecessor. He was one

hell of a mean bastard,’ he said.

‘Can you shut up!’ screamed a voice.‘God help us,’ shouted another.

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Hatred is the key

Judith and Jonas Sleep sat close to the roaring log

fire. The Captain plugged at his long pipe and

subconsciously stroked his Irish wolfhound

stretched out at his feet.

‘Jonas, can I ask…?’ she moved nervously in

her chair waiting for a response. Her husband

raised his head, looked across at her and waited

for the question.

‘What did happen to Thomas Irwin?’ she asked.

He took another plug of his pipe. ‘The short

answer is that the wretched man is a coward and I

had him flogged,’ he said.

‘Flogged?’ she repeated. ‘Well, I'm sure he

deserved it,’ she said.

‘Yes he did, he killed the American Captain in

cold blood. Can you believe that? To make

matters worse they had already surrendered and

he was unarmed.’ He took another drag on hispipe. ‘He's one useless character, that’s for sure,’

he mumbled.

Judith gave his reply some thought and turned

her attention to the flames.

Jonas pushed himself back into his chair andblew smoke towards the fire, a man at peace.

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Hatred is the key

Chapter six

Captain and Judith Sleep entered the tiny

Princetown church of St Michael's and sat on the

right side of the narrow aisle next to Isaac

Hartman, Rachel and a sleeping baby Emily.

Squire Irwin and his family were already sat in

the front row on the opposite side and, upon

seeing the Captain, the Squire gave him a

prolonged glower of contempt, and fidgeted

uncomfortably in the pew.

The clergyman smiled and pointed to the hymn

numbers on a board.

‘Could we please sing together hymn number

263,’ he said.

The organist played and the congregation

stood and began to sing, For those in peril on thesea.

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Graham Sclater

The choice of hymn clearly incensed the Squire

who turned to stare defiantly at Captain Sleep.

At the end of the service, the Squire, now

fuming with rage, made to leave the church. His

wife, Dorien, tugged at his sleeve and with the

help of Thomas and Priscilla made a futile attempt

to prevent him from leaving.

Captain and Judith Sleep left the church

followed by Isaac Hartman, Rachel and baby

Emily. Thomas, Squire Irwin and his wife were

already outside the church gates and as soon as

the Squire saw Captain Sleep he rushed across to

him.

‘Call yourself a Christian?’ screamed Squire

Irwin, shaking his head violently. ‘You're not even

human!’

Isaac Hartman strode across to join them. ‘If I

were you, sir, I would retract that statement.Captain Sleep is a fine naval officer, one of

Nelson's own and an upstanding member of this

community.’ He paused and stared hard at

Thomas. ‘Something, sir… you might find hard to

understand,’ he said glibly. The remainder of the congregation stood in

silence and looked on.

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Hatred is the key

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ retorted the Squire.

Thomas Irwin kicked nervously at the gravel

path. ‘Sir, I think we should leave now,’ he

whispered.

Isaac overheard him.

‘Squire, if I am permitted to offer an opinion, I

feel that that would be a very wise decision,’ he

paused, ‘sir!’ said Isaac Hartman curtly.

Squire Irwin screwed up his face, his eyes

almost disappearing beneath his bushy eyebrows.

‘That's as maybe.’ He coughed before continuing

and turned to face Captain Sleep head on. ‘But

what you did is inexcusable.’ His face reddened

with anger. ‘And you will pay!’ he said. He turned

to his wife, son and daughter. ‘Come Dorien,

Thomas, Priscilla,’ he said brusquely.

Isaac Hartman made a move towards the

Squire but Captain Sleep pulled him back.‘But, sir,’ said Isaac.

‘Leave him, he's really not worth it,’ said the

Captain.

Benjamin Beck, Henry Sterling and Asha Adams

paced up and down in the thick mud.

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Graham Sclater

Benjamin, deep in thought, stopped abruptly.

‘So how long have you been in here, Asha?’ he

asked.

Asha thought for a moment and looked across

at Henry before speaking.

‘Well, when we first got captured they left me

and Henry on a filthy hulk on the Hamoaze and

then after a few weeks we wuz marched to this

place.’

‘Through thick snow’ interrupted Henry. ‘I

reckon it must be near on two years.’ He thinks,

‘but it was bad back in them days.’

‘Bad then? So what do you think it's like now?’

asked Benjamin. ‘This place ain't no better than

hell itself,’ he said.

‘That's as maybe but at least we got off that

stinking hulk and we can see the sky.’ He looked

up at the clear sky and grinned. ‘When me andHenry arrived the Frenchies were about leavin’. A

lot of 'em 'ad bin in this place for nearly five

years,’ he said.

‘Five years?’ exclaimed Benjamin.

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Hatred is the key

‘That's right,’ said Asha. ‘The last of 'em only

left in January, and as they was leavin' one poor

bastard only had a piece of blanket to hand in to

the soddin' rebels. When they saw it they sent 'im

back inside. You should 'ave seen the poor sod he

took it bad, real bad.’ He shook his head and

looked across to Henry.

Henry continued. ‘He cut his own throat.’ He

swallowed hard and pointed to a spot between the

closed gates. ‘Right there,’ he said softly, clearly

affected by the memory.

‘What did you expect? That Agent's one

sonofabitch,’ said Asha.

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Graham Sclater

Charles Blasden pushed himself forward.

‘That's an understatement, Cotgrave was bad…

but Shortland!’ He paused. ‘Bloody Shortland,

he's a real hard bastard.’

‘How come there was still a French prisoner out

on the moor the day we arrived?’ asked Benjamin.

‘A few of the sickest ones, not fit to travel

stayed on in the infirmary 'til they was well

enough to leave,’ said Asha.

‘And Shortland had his eye on that one for

quite a while. We knew he'd never see France

again,’ said Charles staring blankly into space.

Peter Beck sat on the floor of the cachot and

shivered, cold and hungry and feeling extremely

dejected. As the outside lantern blew in the wind

casting a flash of light into the cell his cellmate

moved close to him and he saw him for the first

time.

‘You're a mulatto, how come you're in here?’

asked a surprised Peter.

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Hatred is the key

‘Me mudder wuz Negro slave und I's reckon me

fadda wuz de plandation munager… dey musd

'ave gut togedda ya know… somehow's.’ He

laughed and stood up. ‘Dat man… 'e 'ave a but

ov a repudation fer dat. I dink 'e earn da money

frum de owner fer effery mixed race babie 'e

faddered,’ he said.

He kicked at the granite wall and sat down. ‘Et

didn't 'elp… I's still a slave, prob'ly 'ways will be

zo.’

‘Um…,’ muttered Peter, not knowing what to

say.

‘I wuz in Numba Fer Block wi' de rest of the

sleves and Dick tuk a big 'atin' to me, said I wuz a

white sonofabitch… I 'ad to defend maself… I's

stubbed one of dem… killed em….’

Peter interrupted him. ‘From what I've seen

over the past few weeks I wouldn't have thoughtthe British would have cared one way or another

about that.’

‘You's right… but den I stubbed a Sergeant.’

Peter smiled and nodded. ‘Kill him?’ he asked

eagerly.

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Graham Sclater

The mulatto shook his head. ‘No, zir… I

wounded 'im… Sergeant Greaves… no need ta

see MacGrath… nottin' more dan a scratch,’ he

said the dejection clear in his voice.

‘‘Nuff of dat,’ he said as he reached out his

hand. ‘Me naeme is Uriah… Uriah Spearman.’

Peter smiled. ‘Pleased to meet you, Uriah

Spearman,’ he said. ‘Peter Beck, I'm in here with

my younger brother Benjamin.’

‘Fast dime I'd 'eard a dat…. Cousans… course,

but bruvvers… um.’

‘I didn't want to join the navy, Benjamin

convinced me to go with him… biggest mistake

we could have made…,’ said Peter shaking his

head. ‘Don't know if or when we’ll ever get outta

here,’ he said reflecting.

‘Look… don't ya give up, mon,’ said Uriah.

‘Come on… dis war'll be over zoon und we go'ome… e'en me… a slave,’ he said as he

contemplated his future.

During the night the door opened and Uriah

was removed.

Peter never saw him again. And nor did anyoneelse.

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Hatred is the key

Ten days later the cachot door opened again and

Peter Beck looking frail and exhausted, leaned

against the frame, put on his glasses, tilted his

head backwards and cried to himself as the

sudden freezing rain beat down onto his pale face.

Benjamin ran across to help his elder brother

but Sergeant Greaves held him back, threatening

him with his bullwhip.

‘If I was you, I'd try to keep out of the way of

the Captain.’ He said to Peter as he fingered his

whip lovingly. ‘Or next time… he'll see yer dead.’

He laughed in Peter's face and walked away.

Benjamin supported his brother and motioned

to Henry Sterling to help him. Reluctantly he

edged his way across the yard to join them.

‘Come on Peter, I've saved you something to

eat,’ said Benjamin turning to stare back at

Sergeant Greaves. ‘Bastard,’ he mouthed.As they made their way to Number Three

Block, dark leaden clouds rolled in across the

depot and the thick mist descended over them.

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Graham Sclater

The torrential rain hammered on the roof of the

building and, while two prisoners washed and

brushed the granite floor, Dylan Chipp lay in his

hammock shivering and mumbling to himself. He

finally slid out and prodded his neighbour's

hammock.

‘Come on, get up!’ he shouted.

The prisoner rolled out of his hammock and fell

to the ground with a deathly thud.

Dylan ran towards the door screaming while

the two prisoners, unaffected by the dead body,

continued to sweep around it.

Benjamin wrapped his brother in a blanket and

passed him the food he had saved for him.

‘How do you feel now?’ asked Benjamin.

The noise and shouting at the far end of the

building almost drowned him out.

‘I'll be all right, but the poor sod I met in theredidn't make it,’ said Peter Beck sadly screwing up

his face. ‘He'd bin in there for weeks… then they

took…,’ he murmured.

‘Get some sleep,’ said Benjamin thinking. ‘If

you can.’At the far end of the block Dylan Chipp

collected money from the other prisoners.

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Hatred is the key

‘Any more bets?’ he shouted, the excitement

clearly audible in his grating voice.

William Cole held up a sixpenny piece. Dylan

grabbed it, nodded his acceptance and slipped it

unnoticed into his waistcoat pocket.

‘That's it, Robert. It's closed,’ he said

assertively.

The prisoners moved back, formed a large

circle against the walls and stood in silence.

Robert Stapely signalled to young Sylas and he

pulled out a large stinking bone from a hessian

sack and dropped it in the middle of the circle.

They stood motionless and waited patiently.

A large rat pushed its nose out of a hole and

scurried across to the bone. Other rats followed

and within seconds there were nearly a dozen rats

gnawing at the rotting bone.

Ralph Etherington, the appointed adjudicator,whistled loudly and the rats scurried back to their

holes. The prisoners screamed, cheered and

whistled loudly.

Ram Barley jumped in the air. ‘I won… I won!’

he screamed with excitement.Ralph Etherington stepped forward. ‘You

didn't,’ he said.

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Graham Sclater

‘I tell you, I did,’ said an indignant Ram Barley.

‘I tell ya now.’ Ralph looked around for any

agreement. There wasn’t any. He swallowed

before he continued. ‘You didn't,’ repeated Ralph.

‘William won!’ said a confident Dylan Chipp.

As William Cole reached for his winnings Ram

Barley pulled a knife from his boot and lashed out

at him slicing deep into his arm.

‘That's enough,’ shouted Ralph. ‘William won

fair and square,’ he said as he forced himself

between the gamblers.

Ram Barley pulled his knife away and wiped it

on his sleeve before he stormed off in a rage,

cursing under his breath.

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Hatred is the key

Chapter seven

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Graham Sclater

The heavily laden pony train weaved its way

across the moor, led by Martha, an overweight

middle aged trader. She sat uncomfortably on the

leading pony followed by Helmut Fischer, a

German Jew, Freda, the bearded fish wife, who

wore fishermen's boots and jacket and other

traders and moorland farmers who joined the

procession as it neared the prison.

Upon reaching the Dartmoor depot the outer

gates swung opened and the traders were

permitted to pass slowly through the narrow

opening. They were searched by the militia and

guards who weighed their goods and chalked up

the weight and price on each sack or basket

before allowing them to pass through the second

gate.

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Hatred is the key

Agnes, a pretty young girl, struggled with two

baskets as she made her way towards the gate.

After the guard checked the contents of her

baskets she was permitted to join the rest of the

traders in the inner courtyard. The courtyard also

served as the market square where the traders

and locals were permitted to sell their produce

between the hours of eleven in the morning until

two o'clock in the afternoon, throughout the week

except Sunday.

The early morning sun shone across the square

highlighting the contrasting and colourful traders

at their respective stalls.

Martha has two stalls of vegetables, peat and

bread, behind which her ponies struggled to get at

the few strands of hay she had left for them.

The prisoners crowded excitedly around

Agnes's stall and fought to ogle her while othersqueued to buy her saffron cakes. In contrast,

Freda stood desperately trying to sell her rotting

merchandise to a few emaciated Negroes who

hung belligerently around her fish stall.

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Graham Sclater

While other stalls sold homemade bread and

cakes, meat, straw and leather, Helmut Fischer

straightened up his rolls of cloth, buttons and

calico while another Jewish trader alongside him

set out his stall of tobacco.

The depot square was packed. Prisoners,

militia, guards and members of the public pushed

their way through the crowd and walked from stall

to stall before deciding where they would spend

their money.

A very large crowd of local people haggled

enthusiastically around a stall near the Barter

Gate, where Ralph Etherington was selling

delicate objects, small forks, spoons, canon, carts

and small ships, intricately carved by his fellow

prisoners from stolen beef and mutton bones

which, now highly polished, could pass for ivory.

Thomas Irwin studied a tiny figurine but as heturned he accidentally bumped into a pretty

young woman and dropped it onto the ground.

‘You'll 'ave to pay for that if it's damaged, sir,’

shouted Ralph angrily.

‘What the…?’ cursed Thomas Irwin as he bentdown and groaned with pain as he picked up the

figurine.

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Hatred is the key

‘I'm very sorry, sir,’ said the young woman, her

long dark hair glistening in the sun.

Still holding his back, Thomas turned. ‘Hello

Mara… how are you?’ he asked.

‘Hello Thomas, I'm fine thank you.’

She took her time to look him up and down.

‘Are you feeling any better?’ she asked.

Thomas looked at her surprised. ‘You heard?’

he said.

‘Father told me,’ she said nodding gracefully.

‘Ah…’ he paused nervously. ‘I… I… I… saved

First Lieutenant Hartman's life by shooting that

Yankee Captain,’ he said forcing a smile. ‘And

what does Captain Sleep do?’ He paused and

waited but she didn't reply. ‘He had me flogged,

that's what… the bas… had me flogged,’ he

seethed, not attempting to hide the contempt in

his voice.Mara feigned an impressed smile. ‘So you're a

hero?’ she said.

William Cole shared a joke with Joshua Amos

and accidentally bumped into Mara.

‘I’m sorry, ma'am,’ he said graciously.‘No… it was my fault,’ she said looking around.

‘It's awfully crowded this morning,’ she said

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Graham Sclater

before turning to Thomas. She gave him an

obviously false smile. ‘It’s good to see you again,

Thomas,’ she said before returning to William.

‘Likewise, Mara,’ said Thomas, scowling at

William Cole before walking off.

‘I'm very sorry, ma'am but if I may say so I

wouldn't become too friendly with… that

character,’ he said loud enough for Thomas to

hear.

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Hatred is the key

She smiled, lowered her head, and walked off

deep in thought.

The Rough Alleys, a group of filthy anti-social

thieves who had absolutely no scruples and

revelled in crime and violence, came together

because of their common depravity. They

gathered in the corner of the market and openly

planned their next crime. Without a word of

warning the group attacked Helmut, the Jewish

stall holder, wrecking his stall before being chased

away by a group of bayonet thrusting militiamen

who, although appearing brave on the surface,

were very wary at having to challenge the most

vicious of inmates.

In the chaos Marshall Cunningham seized the

opportunity and delicately fingered a length of

cloth on Helmut Fischer's stall. With the other

hand, unnoticed, he attached a hook to a second

piece of material. He dropped the cloth silently to

the ground, looked furtively around, and nodded.

Robert Stapely pulled at the cord and it began to

slide along the floor under the stall and out of site

into a nearby grating.

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Graham Sclater

Later that afternoon, while the rain hammered

onto the roof of Number Three Block and the

prisoners-of-war sat talking and singing, Dylan

Chipp was being measured for a new suit by the

best tailor in the depot, a Negro from Number

Four Block, courtesy of Big Dick.

‘Look at that bastard. As soon as he gets

money, what does he do? Waste it on a new suit?’

shouted William Cole.

‘He's gonna look like Royalty,’ screamed

Marshall Cunningham before turning to face Dylan

Chipp. ‘Is that right, ma Lord?’ he chortled.

‘Who's gonna see it in 'ere?’ shouted Asha

Adams.

‘You might all laugh but we're gonna be out of

here by Christmas,’ retorted Dylan as he stroked

the stolen cloth.

Jeremiah Hatch sat playing dice with RamBarley. ‘Is that right the British took Washington?’

he asked.

‘Yeah! They sure did,’ replied Ram Barley.

‘They took the White House back in August,

President Madison and the rest of Congress had tohigh tail it outta there.’

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Hatred is the key

‘They did what?’ asked a surprised Marshall

Cunningham.

‘They had to. The bastards darn well burnt the

White House to the ground,’ he said. ‘But as I

took off for sea again, I heard we beat 'em at

Baltimore and the British high tailed it back to

Canada,’ he said before throwing a double six.

Marshall Cunningham made his way across to

Peter Beck. ‘How ya doin'?’ he asked.

‘I'm fine now. Just glad to be out of that hole,’

he said as he fingered his glasses case. ‘What

happened to you?’ he asked pointing at Marshall's

jagged scar across his throat.

‘A group of Rough Alleys attacked me when I

got me allowance,’ he said as he recalled the

moment. ‘If I were you I'd keep out of their way,

they'll kill anybody for a penny,’ he said.

‘The evil bas…,’ cursed Peter, as MarshallCunningham cut off Peter in full flow. ‘It's all right,

I was lucky. William Dykar, Doc MacGrath's

predecessor, wanted to cut me head off to save

me life,’ he said laughing loudly. ‘The old bastard

saved me life all right. I don't think I'd be 'erenow if MacGrath had got to me,’ he said in his

high pitched voice.

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Graham Sclater

Tavistock was alive with the annual October

Goosey Fayre. Martha, Agnes, Helmut and all theprison traders had set up their stalls in the narrow

streets which were crammed with farm animals,

stalls selling everything imaginable, traders,

buskers, fire eaters, and pen upon pen of white

geese.

In the centre of the square a Punch and Judy

booth had already attracted a large crowd of

children and adults. A puppet dressed like a

French soldier dodged the wooden baton waved

aggressively at him by Mister Punch who

screamed uncontrollably at him in a blood

curdling high pitched voice.

Isaac and Rachel Hartman, Captain and Judith

Sleep stood at the rear of the crowd and joined in

the fun. Isaac moved close to Captain Sleep and

waiting for a break in the jeering, whispered in his

ear. ‘Captain, would you and Judith do us the

honour of being Godparents to our Emily?’

The Captain nodded slowly, turned and smiled.

‘We'd be highly honoured… highly honoured,’ he

said proudly.

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Hatred is the key

The crowd's raucous laughter drowned out any

further conversation.

“Soooo… the Frenchies tried to beat us!’

shrieked Mister Punch.

‘Yeah!’ shouted the crowd hanging on his every

word.

‘And what did Wellington do?’ replied Mister

Punch.

The crowd now at fever pitch built to a

crescendo.

‘Chased Napoleon all the way to Elba,’ they

yelled.

Mister Punch tossed the French puppet into the

air with his baton and caught him again.

As the crowd went wild Monsieur Boulan, a well

dressed, French, ex-prisoner shrugged in disgust

and disappeared unnoticed into the crowd.

Mister Punch then dragged a puppet dressed ina jacket fashioned in a miniature Star Spangled

Banner flag, erected a hangman's gallows and

stood holding the noose in his hand.

‘And what are we going to do with them

Yankees?’ shrieked Mister Punch.‘Hang 'em,’ screamed the crowd.

130



Graham Sclater

‘Hang 'em all,’ yelled a disabled seaman at the

back.

‘Lock 'em up and throw away the key,’ shouted

a voice deep in the crowd.

The crowd jeered loudly in agreement.

Mister Punch pushed the American puppet into

the noose and hit him viciously with his baton.

‘That's the way to do it!’ he screamed and the

crowd agreed wholeheartedly with their jeers and

shouts.

Dylan Chipp stood in the prison yard and talked

animatedly to a group of Rough Alleys and within

an hour they carried two old dented boilers into

Number Three Block. They delivered them to an

excited Dylan Chipp who was standing in the

shadows in the furthest corner of the block.

‘Over here… over here,’ he repeated in a

strained whisper finding it hard to hide hisexcitement.

The Rough Alleys carried them to him. Dylan

paid them, covered them with an old sack and

stood smirking and congratulating himself. ‘No

one beats Dylan Chipp,’ he repeated over andover.

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Hatred is the key

The next morning Dylan Chipp waited

impatiently outside the back door of the kitchen. It

slowly opened and a porter passed him a tightly

rolled up cloth. Dylan grabbed at it, paid him, and

rushed off towards the market square.

While Robert Stapley filled a large can with

water from the open channel that ran through the

prison yard Dylan Chipp opened the cloth,

checked the burnt bread crusts and burnt peas,

rewrapped them and beat them hard against the

wall.

Robert struggled across the yard with the

heavy can of water and poured it into the metal

boilers while Dylan shook with anticipation.

‘Come on get it in there boy,’ he said as he lit the

fire beneath the boilers and waited. As soon as

the water boiled he carefully sprinkled the fine

crumbs and smashed peas into the bubblingwater, stood back and waited. His impatience was

clear as he sub consciously alternated between

tapping his feet and digging his heels hard into

the gravel.

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Graham Sclater

As the long forgotten intoxicating aroma

wafted across the square the prisoners began to

gather around him. Dylan stood back and

mumbled to himself. ‘I'll show 'em who's smart.’

The corner of the market square was ready to

burst as the excited prisoners crowded around

Dylan Chipp and Robert Stapley. They both stood

proudly beside the steaming coffee and tea

boilers. The prisoners, each holding their own

mugs, had already formed a queue which reached

for several yards, as they waited to buy their hot

drinks.

‘This is how it should be boy,’ he said firmly.

‘You keep an eye on 'em, and remember… no

money… no tea or coffee,’ he said with a

controlling voice and a wide smile. He walked

along the line collecting the pennies while Robert

carefully poured equal measures of coffee andtea. When the coffee ran out he removed some of

the liquid from the boiler containing the tea,

poured it into the coffee boiler and topped it up.

133



Hatred is the key

Chapter eight

134



Graham Sclater

The thick dark clouds rushed across the sky

passing low across the Tor.

The wild northerly wind blew the long gone

summer's dead heather and gorse across the

muddy farm yard, attacking the branches of the

ancient oaks that surrounded the farmstead and

violently stripping the remaining leaves from

them.

Henrietta and Alex chased the sheep into their

pen and closed the gate behind them before

running towards the cottage clearly uneasy as the

loose and rotten timbers rattled noisily on the

outbuildings around them.

‘Winter's gonna be 'ere early this year. You

mark me words,’ shouted their father, Harold

Thomson, his voice barely audible above the wind.

A few minutes later the first snow of the winter

began to fall across the moor.Dylan Chipp lay, in his hammock in the

darkness and after carefully counting his money,

smiled and congratulated himself. He scratched

at his chest, picked off a creeper, looked at it

closely and grunted in disgust before squeezing itbetween his filthy finger nails.

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Hatred is the key

The next morning the prison yard was dusted

with a thin layer of snow.

Some of the prisoners exercised in the snow

covered yard and played football to keep warm

while other sickly, prisoners leant against the wall,

coughing and shivering and trying desperately to

catch what was left of the weak sun on their pale

and gaunt faces.

The ball was kicked over the wall, a guard

kicked it back and the game continued.

The last rays of the mid December sun shone into

the Agent's office illuminating the collection of oil

paintings of ships and various maps and charts of

the New World, while along another wall stood a

rack of rifles loaded and ready for use.

The air was heavy with the smoke.

Rueben G Beasly, the overweight American

with the twin titles of American Agent and

American Consul, sat at one side of the large solid

oak desk, smoking a huge cigar, while Captain

Shortland paced up and down taking huge drags

on his cigar.

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Graham Sclater

‘It's not good enough, Mister Beasly,’ he said.

‘Don't you realise?’ He swallowed angrily, ‘that

you as the American representative, are

neglecting your own citizens.’

The American tried to catch his breath.

‘Captain, you don't need me to tell you how long it

takes for instructions to arrive from my country.’

He had to think before he continued. ‘The last

took… almost seven weeks.’ He took another

deep breath. ‘And, if you were to ask me how

long the next communication will take… well…

I've absolutely no idea.’ He forced a smile and

slumped back in his chair. ‘Britain has control of

the seas.’ He shook his head in desperation. ‘I'm

doing all I can,’ he said as he stroked his double

chin and massaged it while shaking his head from

side to side.

‘Come, come, Mister Beasly,’ said CaptainShortland who stood looking out onto the yard.

‘That’s as maybe but you have the power to

release more of their rightful allowance.’ He

turned to face Beasly. ‘Who knows how much

longer,’ he coughed loudly, ‘our guests will behere?’

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Hatred is the key

‘Very well, Captain… when I return to London I

will make arrangements to release two months

allowance to our fellow citizens of one penny

halfpenny a day for distribution by your goodself.’

He sat forward and took a huge drag on his cigar

before continuing. ‘But there is little else I am

permitted to do,’ he said exhaling a cloud of

smoke.

Isaac Hartman struggled with a fir tree cut from

the nearby forest and forced his way through the

snow fighting the strong biting wind every inch of

the way.Rachel tidied the sitting room while the wind

whistled eerily around the longhouse.

In stark contrast to the weather outside, the

small and compact room was welcoming and

warmed by the log fire that roared in the open

stone fireplace.

The flames created dancing shadows across

the white lime washed ceiling and walls.

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Graham Sclater

Isaac stumbled exhausted into the cottage,

kicked the snow from his sodden boots and placed

them close to the fire. Rachel took his overcoat

and placed it on a wooden hanger and hung it on

the extended granite mantelshelf away from the

fire, rubbed the remaining ice from his boots

before she straightened and turned them sole up

and placed them away on the end of the hearth

away from the fierce flames.

This was the first time Isaac had been home for

Christmas since marrying Rachel a few years

earlier and with his new family decided to follow in

his Captain's footsteps by having a tree.

Captain Sleep had been one of the first people

on Dartmoor to erect a Christmas tree. He learnt

of the tradition when he visited Hamburg in the

winter of 1805, a few short months before the

arrival of Napoleon's troops who were to occupythe strategically placed city and port for many

years.

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Hatred is the key

Isaac reached into his waistcoat pocket and

took out his razor sharp knife and trimmed the

branches of the perfect tree that would soon fill

one corner of the room. He placed the redundant

branches on the fire, causing it to smoke heavily

before bursting into life and creating high flames

which temporarily filled the room with a brilliant

bright light.

Isaac moved the tree from one place to the

next before finally positioning it and standing back

proudly to admire it.

‘It's beautiful, absolutely beautiful, darling,’

said Rachel excitedly. ‘Look at it Emily, isn't it

wonderful?’

Emily slept unaware of the transformation

going on around her.

While Isaac had been away at sea, Rachel had

spent many long hours making decorative needleand bobbin lace in the form of snowflakes and

contemporary Italian tassles which she carefully

adapted to resemble icicles. She had been

fortunate enough to have met a Honiton lace

maker in Tavistock market who taught her theintricate process.

140



Graham Sclater

Together the couple carefully chose where to

hang the lace decorations, apples and chestnuts,

sprigs of holly, dried flowers and shaped coloured

paper.

Rachel leaned across and lovingly kissed

Isaac's cheek. ‘It's good to have you here with

us,’ she purred.

Isaac smiled at her lovingly, ‘I'm going to be

around for a while longer.’ He grinned at her. ‘The

Captain visited Plymouth yesterday…,’ his grin

gradually turned into a huge smile. ‘The Raytheon

won't be ready until at least the end of April.’

Rachel moved closer to her husband, cuddled

and kissed him gently, while subconsciously her

forefinger followed the line of his carefully

sculpted sideburns.

‘They can take as long as they wish… it's so

good to have you here with us.’ She looked acrosslovingly at Emily in the handmade crib. ‘Isn't it

Emily?’

She kissed Isaac again. ‘Perhaps she'll be

walking before you leave us?’

Isaac smiled. ‘I should hope so,’ he said lookingdown at Emily.

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Hatred is the key

The prison kitchens were noisier than normal as

the cooks prepared what in their opinion was a

special Christmas meal. It was no different than

any other day but to them they knew they would

have a short respite from their usual mundane

duties. Due to the poor weather only limited

ingredients had arrived from the outside

victuallers and therefore the food was prepared

quicker than normal.

With everything prepared the last porter blew

out the oil lamps as he left and walked out of the

door closing it behind him. In the darkness,

dozens of large well-fed rats crawled out from

behind boxes, crates, sacks and rubbish bins and

made their way to the uncovered cauldrons of

cooling broth.

In the clear frosty afternoon the liveried carriage

of Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, followed by a number of

other carriages, made their way up the long

gravel drive towards the imposing country

residence of Squire Irwin.

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Graham Sclater

Stuffed animal heads adorned every wall of the

large oak panelled entrance hall while a large

Christmas tree took pride of place at the foot of

the wide sweeping staircase.

The Squire and his family welcomed their

guests with a large glass of hot punch.

‘Happy Christmas, Sir Thomas,’ beamed Squire

Irwin holding his glass high in the air.

In stark contrast a solitary branch of holly hung

from the beam in Number Three Block and many

of the prisoners sat along the wall and read the

first letters since arriving at the Depot. It was

biting cold and others lay in their hammocks

shivering, coughing and moaning. Other groups of

prisoners smoked, played cards and games while

Peter Beck tried to pick out a tune on a mandolin

he had won in a game of cards.

‘The British are givin' us a hell of a fight up in

Canada,’ said Ram Barley as he read his letter

aloud.

‘We're gonna win though ain't we?’ asked Sylas

nervously.

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Hatred is the key

‘'Course we are son…, give it time,’ reassured

Peter Beck stopping briefly before picking at the

strings once more.

Robert Stapely broke down. ‘Are we ever

gonna get out of 'ere? I just wanna go home,’ he

cried.

His outburst visibly affected them all.

‘Who would have thought that we would be

spending Thanksgiving and now Christmas like

this?’ said Ram Barley.

Dylan Chipp resplendent in his new suit walked

into the centre of the group and stood preening

himself in front of an imaginary mirror.

‘I can't believe I'm spending Christmas in

prison,’ he paused and slowly looked around.

‘With slaves and gamblers,’ he said with a sly grin.

Ram Barley slowly got to his feet. ‘How can you

say that? The wanton gambling paid for that suitof yours.’ He took a moment to think before

continuing. ‘And as for the slaves, well….’ He

raised his voice, ‘they haven't done you any

harm,’ he shouted.

144



Graham Sclater

Ralph Etherington and Marshall Cunningham

carried the food into the block lit by the few oil

lamps which hung from the wall by makeshift

hooks of pieces of bone and rusty nails.

Everyone sat on the floor waiting their turn but

true to form Dylan Chipp rushed to the front and

pushed his plate towards Ralph Etherington for

the first serving.

Ralph dipped the ladle deep into the metal

bowl and poured it onto Dylan Chipp's plate.

‘Look at this!’ screamed Dylan as he pushed

his fingers nervously into the steaming broth and

pulled at the black tail to reveal a whole boiled

rat. ‘They're feeding us rats!’ he screamed as he

threw the bowl at Ralph.

‘Wot da ya expect, mon? Dis es Christmus,’

screeched Miles laughing loudly.

Moses sniggered. ‘Why am you zo dif'rent frumuz? Haf ya ever dought wut ya gif uz ta eat bak

'ome?’ he said.

‘You boy! Are a slave,’ said Charles Francis

with a look of total disgust. ‘Ugh, why should we

waste decent food on the likes of you?’ hescreeched.

Dylan Chipp finally laughed.

145



Hatred is the key

Moses shook his head and began to get to his

feet. ‘You bastard!’ he shouted.

‘What did you say?’ shouted Charles Francis as

he pulled a knife from his boot, lunged at Moses

and cut deep into the main artery of his arm.

Blood began to pump uncontrollably out of the

black slave's veins.

‘I told ya… you ain't like us, boy… you never

will be,’ screamed an incensed Charles Francis.

Miles reached forward and grabbed at his

throat. He threw his head back and forward and

after a bitter fight choked the life out of Charles

Francis before turning his attention to Dylan

Chipp.

‘Get away from me, boy! I'll have you hung for

that,’ screamed Dylan looking around for

someone, anyone to agree with him.

Undeterred, Miles punched him hard in thestomach and around the head, cutting his mouth

and breaking his nose before being pulled off.

Charles Blasden stepped forward and grabbed

at Dylan with his only arm. ‘We make our own

justice in 'ere,’ he screamed. He looked down andpointed firmly at the body of Charles Francis. ‘And

that's justice,’ he said as he spat at the body.

146



Graham Sclater

Miles turned his attention to Moses and after

ripping a thin strip from his shirt sleeve tied it

around his heavily bleeding arm.

147



Hatred is the key

The trouble was suddenly brought to a halt as

the turnkey blew his horn. ‘Turn in! Turn in!’ he

shouted as he slammed the inner door with a loud

echoed bang and locked it. With the first door

locked behind him he walked to the outer door

and slammed it shut. Leaving everyone to reflect

on what had just happened.

In a distinct contrast to Number Three Block huge

logs burned in the large carved fireplace beneath

a portrait of Squire Irwin resplendent in his finest

heavily embroidered clothes. The oak panelled

walls, beautiful plaster cornices, the heavy velvet

drapes, were a backdrop for the laid up mahogany

dining table with the silver cutlery, ornate crystal

cut glasses, matching decanters and beautiful

silver candlesticks.

The atmosphere was noisy and jovial.

148



Graham Sclater

The Squire and his wife Dorien, Thomas and

Priscilla Irwin, Captain Shortland and Mara, Sir

Thomas Tyrwhitt and Doctor George MacGrath sat

around the table. All the gentlemen had already

consumed a great deal of alcohol and although

dinner was almost finished in the centre of the

gigantic table huge plates and dishes that

appeared to have hardly been touched still

overflowed with a immense piece of ribbed beef, a

leg of ham, a partially eaten goose, roasted

potatoes, whole parsnips and other assorted root

vegetables.

‘A wonderful table of food Squire Irwin…

complements to the kitchen,’ said Doctor

MacGrath.

They all clapped appreciatively.

Sir Thomas waited for the clapping to subside

before speaking. ‘The Prince Regent tells meNapoleon is trying to put a new army together,’ he

said hardly able to contain himself. ‘To fight

again,’ he laughed loudly, ‘that's right, to fight

again!’ he bellowed.

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Graham Sclater

‘Your good health, gentlemen,’ said Squire

Irwin as he raised his glass.

They swirled the blonde liquid around before

they finally sipped it and smiled broadly in

agreement before taking a much larger drink.

‘A very fine Cognac, Robert,’ said Captain

Shortland as he emptied his glass. ‘Very fine,’ he

repeated with a wide drunken smile of deep

satisfaction. Without warning, he reached towards

the butler and grabbed one of the bottles before

anyone realised what was happening. He poured

himself a large measure and emptied the glass

before letting out a loud a raucous laugh. ‘Very

fine indeed,’ he slurred.

‘It should be, it's made by an Englishman in

Jarnac, a Thomas Hine, and certainly very

special… and… may I say extremely expensive.’

He laughed loudly and winked. ‘I'll arrange abottle for you, Captain. And of course for yourself,

Sir Thomas,’ said Squire Irwin.

‘Sir, that would be much appreciated,’ said Sir

Thomas. ‘Now, I would like to propose a toast to

our host and hostess,’ he said raising his glass. They all raised their glasses.

‘Merry Christmas,’ they said collectively.

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Hatred is the key

The Squire finally put down his glass and

looked thoughtfully across to Sir Thomas. ‘Is it

right that the highwayman, Tom Rocket has been

hanged?’ he asked.

Sir Thomas took a slug of his Cognac. ‘Yes, it

is….’ He answered and reflected. ‘Um… a great

pity.’

‘What?’ boomed Captain Shortland. ‘He was a

robber, a highwayman no less, robbing those poor

and unfortunate souls between Honiton and

Exeter.’

‘That's as maybe, Captain but he was most

courteous to the end. The hangman over in

Exeter was very upset at having to administer the

punishment… most upset… most upset indeed.’

‘I hear tell he was a former army captain,’

asked Squire Irwin.

Sir Thomas nodded. ‘That's correct… a tall andpowerfully built young man of thirty five years.’

He reflected. ‘So be it… Justice has to reign or

we'd have anarchy.’ He turned to Captain

Shortland. ‘Is that right, Captain?’

Captain Shortland nodded and lit another cigar.

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Graham Sclater

While the rest of the inmates sat on the floor

playing cards, rereading their letters or singing, a

bloodied and pained Dylan Chipp sat well away

from everyone else and sub consciously fingered

the soft fabric of his left jacket sleeve. In the poor

light he ran his hands down the other sleeve of his

jacket until he felt a creeper and revolted at its

very presence jumped up cursing to himself. He

spent the next hour carefully examining every

inch of his suit meticulously removing any obvious

dirt and searching for any other invasive bugs.

Moses Reading lay in the corner slowly

bleeding to death. Miles knelt over him. ‘Prumis

me, ya woon't let 'im take me back,’ moaned

Moses as he turned his head in the direction of

Dylan Chipp. ‘I'd radda die dan ge back ta dat,’

he gasped.

‘We woon't,’ replied Miles with tears in hiseyes. ‘We'm go up t' north togedda,’ he lied.

Moses struggled to speak. ‘Prumis me,’ he said

in a whisper before his whole body shuddered and

he died.

‘I prumis,’ mouthed Miles.

153



Hatred is the key

He reached down and closed his dead friend's

eyes and covered him with a blanket before

getting up and walking slowly towards Dylan

Chipp.

‘I's gunna kill ya,’ he slurred at Dylan.

Dylan muttered his disagreement.

‘What did you say? You bastard?’ asked Dylan

Chipp.

Henry leaned across and whispered to Dylan.

‘Say nothing, we'll get our chance,’ he said

reassuringly.

Peter Beck jumped up throwing his mandolin to

the ground. ‘That's enough!’ he screamed, his

voice reverberating off the granite walls. ‘Are we

all gonna kill each other?’

He looked around for some agreement.

There was none.

He remembered what Uriah told him in thecachot . ‘That's exactly what they want us to do.’

He paused and shook his head in dismay before

walking off into the darkness.

The next morning the snow covered yard was

crammed with prisoners as the bodies of MosesReading and Charles Francis were carried in

silence towards the infirmary.

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Graham Sclater

William Cole broke the silence. ‘We're all

gonna die in here. If we don't end up killing each

other, or disease get us,’ he shouted, ‘this place

will!’

He stomped off across the yard in silence as

his fellow prisoners slowly realised that what he

had just said was probably true.

155



Hatred is the key

Chapter nine

Following the decision by the Transport Office to

concentrate most of the American prisoners-of-

war in Dartmoor depot a new party of prisoners

from Chatham arrived as the heavy mist

descended once more upon the prison. Some

were obviously injured and lay moaning in carts

while others stood shivering, wet and cold outside

the gates in the hard packed snow.

The gates opened and the fit prisoners were

marched through while the sick and injured were

lifted off the carts and carried in on makeshift

stretchers to the infirmary.

A very drunk Captain Shortland walked out of

his office slouched against the door frame and

slowly eyed the prisoners one at a time. ‘No one

escapes from here,’ he slurred. ‘And I mean no

one.’ He belched loudly took a swig at his

whiskey and turned. ‘Sergeant, take them away!’

he shouted. ‘Put them in Number Four Block with

the black bastards and Big Dick,’ he raged.

156



Graham Sclater

Number Four Block was ruled by Big Dick, a Negro

who was given his nickname because he stood

some six foot four inches tall and towered above

most if not all his fellow prisoners. This block had

become notorious since the Americans arrived

and was soon overflowing with black prisoners

and any misfits that were unfortunate to be

incarcerated in the depot. An unwritten

agreement between Captain Cotgrave, Shortland's

predecessor, and the fierce Negro permitted him

to rule the block with a rod of iron providing he

kept them under control and out of trouble with

other prisoners. Dick maintained order with

regular floggings for anyone who failed to obey

his orders. He was often seen wearing a bearskin

cap and carrying a heavy club as he regularly

inspected his “domain” meting out floggings to

anyone who failed to follow his orders.

Sergeant Greaves cracked his whip, licked his lips

and smiled. ‘Let's have yer,’ he shouted. ‘Get a

move on,’ he said.

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Hatred is the key

The prisoners started to move but had no idea

in which direction they should go and tripped over

each other some slipping on the frozen mud and

snow. Sergeant Greaves immediately cracked his

whip three times at the prisoners in quick

succession; their faces unable to hide the sheer

terror.

Doctor George MacGrath walked slowly through

the packed infirmary of the sick and dying

prisoners checking them as he walked. The

orderlies carried in the latest sick arrivals and the

Doctor stopped to address them. ‘How many thistime?’ he sighed, his voice tired and faint.

The orderly looked to the stretchers behind

him. ‘Six,’ he replied.

The second orderly following him spoke out.

‘And there's nearly a dozen more from block three

on their way.’

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Graham Sclater

‘Typhus and smallpox is wiping them out

quicker than last year's measles epidemic or the

African pox,’ he said as he looked around in

desperation. ‘Put 'em over there,’ said Doctor

MacGrath, his voice almost inaudible amongst the

coughs and moans as he pointed to the empty

spaces. The orderlies followed his instruction and

laid the new patients on the cold granite floor

between the more fortunate sick prisoners who

lay on thin straw mattresses infested with

creepers and fleas.

As the snow began to fall heavily, the sentinelsmoved into their makeshift shelters and watched

over the freezing prisoners as they exercised in

the yard to keep warm. But as dusk approached

and visibility diminished the sentries were called

down from the walls and returned to the warmth

of the guard house.

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Hatred is the key

In Number Three Block, a lone oil lamp hanging

from the timber beam shed deep and heavy

shadows across the ceiling. The prisoners lay in

their hammocks in semi darkness, coughing,

sneezing and moaning. The breath condensed on

the walls and formed sheets of ice while the

residue fell onto the granite floor and immediately

froze. A bedeviled prisoner ran screaming

between the occupied hammocks, hammered at

the door and slumped to the ground.

‘Robert just died,’ shouted a voice in the

darkness.

The blizzard continued to rage and swept across

the moor burying everything in its path and the

prison was soon cut off from the outside world.

Sergeant Greaves knocked on the door and

entered the Agent's office and as the door

opened, the thick snow blew in around him.

‘The road to Plymouth is blocked, sir. They

won't be able to get any supplies through for a

least a week,’ he said, ‘and the water's frozen

solid.’

‘You know what to do, Sergeant,’ replied the

Agent.

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Graham Sclater

‘Yessir!’ he replied, as he pulled up the collar of

his jacket and left.

As the blizzard continued to rage across the

moor the sentry posts remained deserted as a

strange silence enveloped the depot and

surrounding moorland.

The snow was more than four foot deep when

Sergeant Greaves almost unrecognizable, beneath

the hat, scarf and raised collar of his jacket, made

his way into Number Three Block. ‘If you don't

want to starve I need three volunteers to help

me,’ he said his voice muffled beneath the scarf.

‘Help you? You must be joking,’ mocked Ram

Barley.

The Sergeant kicked his boots against the

granite wall leaving huge lumps of snow and ice

on the floor. ‘That's fine.’ He paused, ‘but there's

no more food,’ he shouted threateningly.He stood and waited as the moans and

murmurs built to a crescendo.

‘You're gonna leave us to starve is that it?’

shouted Dylan Chipp.

‘We have emergency rations,’ replied theSergeant. ‘But if you don't want them, you will

starve,’ he said.

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Hatred is the key

‘There you are,’ said Dylan as he turned and

looked directly at the Sergeant. ‘Idle threats, eh?’

he mocked.

Sergeant Greaves pulled his scarf away from

his mouth and the corner of his top lip rose slowly

turning into a full smile. ‘They ain't threats,’ he

said. ‘The emergency rations need to be dug out,’

he said firmly. ‘You 'eard what I said…,’ he

stopped and with the atmosphere clearly strained,

he waited. ‘Let me tell you this. I need volunteers

to help me. You can please yourselves, but if you

want to die that's fine….’ He took his time to look

at each prisoner before he continued. ‘But

somehow I wonder if that's what you really want?’

he said looking furtively around.

William Cole slipped out of his hammock and

moved forward. ‘I'll give you a hand,’ he said.

‘So will I,’ said Benjamin Beck.Peter Beck climbed down to join them. ‘If we're

gonna die we may as well be doing something

useful,’ he said glaring at Dylan Chipp.

‘Ah,’ spat a clearly embarrassed Dylan as he

slid away and climbed awkwardly into hishammock.

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The small group wrapped themselves in their

blankets, pushed their way through those still

standing and followed Sergeant Greaves out into

the blizzard.

‘Make sure you shut that door!’ boomed Dylan

as they left the block.

The Sergeant gave each of them a shovel and

as the blizzard raged they slowly dug their way

across the yard to the store room.

They forced the door open and staggered

exhausted inside.

Sergeant Greaves lit an oil lamp which exposed

the boxes and sacks stacked neatly against the

far wall.

‘Grab as much as you can carry and you can

cook it outside yer block,’ he said as he rubbed his

freezing hands, stamped his boots and kicked off

the new snow.William, Benjamin and Peter rushed forward,

grabbed at the boxes and sacks and made their

way to the door but struggled to get out as

prisoners from the other blocks staggered in to

join them.‘Wait yer turn!’ boomed Sergeant Greaves.

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William Cole and Peter Beck cleared an area of

snow and ice at the foot of the granite staircase

outside of their block and while William returned

to the slightly warmer prison block Benjamin

chose to cook a stew of boiled mutton, potatoes

and parsnips on a makeshift fire of wood, straw

and bones. He spent several hours in the sub zero

temperatures and deep snow, whipped up by the

bitter easterly wind, his thinly clad body protected

only by a single blanket which he held around his

body with his exposed left hand while he stirred

the large pot with his right. His warm breath froze

immediately it left his mouth leaving a crusty ice

coating on his face, eye brows and any hair not

covered by his woollen cap.

Marshall and Jeremiah finally served the hot

mutton stew to the now starving inmates before

retiring to their hammocks and endeavouring tokeep their weak bodies warm while they dreamt

of freedom.

In the semi-darkness, the prisoners continued

to shiver, cough and moan relentlessly.

‘Can it get much colder?’ asked Ram Barley.‘Last year we had snow the whole winter,’ said

Ralph Etherington.

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‘Go to sleep, don't waste your energy,’ shouted

Jeremiah Hatch.

Two days later the sun shone for the first time in

more than a week and the snow began to

temporally thaw in the areas touched by its weak

winter rays. The wretched and sickly prisoners

shuffled around in the slush trying to find even the

smallest of those areas where they could get even

a little warmth.

‘'Nother day en der und I'd 'ave killed maself,’

moaned Joshua Amos.

Benjamin Beck followed the Joshua around the

yard and nodded his agreement as he rubbed the

painful blackening index and fore finger on his left

hand.

‘Keep moving,’ shouted a guard lowering his

rifle and flashing his bayonet.

Benjamin's fingers continued to blacken andswell and a few days later an orderly escorted him

into the infirmary and Doctor MacGrath

amputated the two distorted frostbitten fingers.

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‘You're the lucky one,’ said the Doctor as he

stitched the second stub, which a few minutes

earlier had been a rotting finger. ‘I'd like a penny

for every toe or finger I've amputated in 'ere,’ said

the Doctor in a matter of fact manner.

Benjamin gave him a puzzled look and then

spoke.

‘Lucky, I've just lost a couple of ma bloody

fingers,’ he growled.

The orderly piped up. ‘Could've lost yer hand or

yer ear,’ he said. He paused and sniggered, ‘or

yer whole bleeding arm,’ he said laughing

nervously.

Doctor MacGrath fired him an angry look and

the embarrassed orderly shuffled off.

‘I could have saved them you know,’ said

Doctor MacGrath pointing at Benjamin's grossly

disfigured fingers in the tray beside the operatingtable.

Benjamin looked at him quizzically before his

face was suddenly transformed into a look of deep

alarm. ‘What?’ he mouthed

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Graham Sclater

The Doctor smiled and patted him gently on

the shoulder. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I was a little

premature in saying that.’ He stopped to

concentrate on bandaging the wound. ‘At the

moment…,’ he paused to look up at Benjamin. ‘It's

only hear say from my contemporaries but I hear

tell that Baron Dominique Larrey, Napoleon's

surgeon general, has a new technique for treating

frostbite.’ He sighed. ‘Let's just hope he has, we

could do with it in here.’

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Chapter ten

Captain Shortland and Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt sat

and drank cider in a discreet corner of the Plume

of Feathers.

‘Well Captain, it's over at last,’ whispered Sir

Thomas Tyrwhitt.

‘Over?’ asked a surprised Captain Shortland.‘Aye, it is that, Captain. To be honest it hasn't

come soon enough,’ he sighed.

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Sir Thomas raised his arms and waved across

to the buxom young woman clearing the tables.

‘Alice! Let's have more drinks over here,’ he

shouted before slamming his empty tankard onto

the table.

He reflected. ‘But I don't reckon they'll be

going anywhere for quite sometime, quite

sometime,’ he said quietly.

A very drunk Captain Shortland staggered into his

office to find Doctor MacGrath completing a pile of

death certificates.

‘Well George, Sir Thomas has just me told we

signed a peace treaty with the Yankees in Belgium

on Christmas Eve,’ he said.

‘Thank God, Captain,’ said a very relieved

Doctor MacGrath. ‘Look at this,’ he said pointing

at the death certificates in front of him. ‘It can't

come soon enough as far as I'm concerned,’ hepaused before continuing. ‘I've done just about all

I can with the meagre resources I have available

to me in here,’ he said, as he flicked through the

certificates and shook his head.

Captain Shortland looked apprehensive andpoured two large glasses of cognac passing the

smallest to the Doctor.

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‘You don't seem too pleased about the news,

Captain,’ asked the Doctor.

‘It's still not been ratified by London,’ he

replied.

The Doctor took a sip of his cognac and lit a

cigar. ‘Oh, I see.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Well at

least in principle it's over, so I suppose we'll soon

have an empty prison,’ he said taking a huge drag

on his cigar and coughing wildly. Finally catching

his breath he was able to speak. ‘It will change

our lives, you know,’ he said tapping the ash onto

the floor.

‘Don't be too sure about that George, if

Napoleon carries on the way he is then we'll be

full to the gunnels with Frenchies before you know

it,’ he said licking his lips reminiscing on his

hunting jaunts. ‘Come come, let's have another

drink.’ The Doctor topped up his own glass and

poured a full glass for Captain Shortland who

emptied it with one huge gulp.

‘Come on drink up let's have another of Squire

Irwin's fine French cognac, made by anEnglishmen no less,’ said the Agent with a smile.

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Some of the prisoners played football while others

walked and talked in small groups. Robert Stapley

kicked the ball hard over the inner wall and a

guard threw it back almost immediately.

Ram Barley raced across the yard. ‘It's over…

the war's over… we're free… free!’ he screamed

finding it hard to get the words out.

Gradually the prisoners began to take notice.

‘The war's over… yeah…,’ they yelled

uncontrollably.

There was great excitement as the word

spread and the other prisoners gradually began to

spew out into the yard to join him.

The guards and militia were taken by total

surprise and stood shocked and speechless as

almost instantaneously the whole prison took on

an unexpected transformation as scenes of

elation, celebration and euphoria spreadthroughout the depot.

‘I told you we'd beat the British bastards! Now

we can get out of this shit hole… this vile place!’

screamed Dylan Chipp.

Captain Shortland flanked by Doctor MacGrathand Sergeant Greaves walked out of his office and

into the prison yard.

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Hatred is the key

There was immediate silence as the American

prisoners-of-war turned to listen.

‘I can confirm what you have all been hearing.

The war is officially over,’ said Captain Shortland

maintaining a stern look while he waved the letter

above his head.

The prisoners whooped excitedly but soon

realised that all is not well and the cheers quickly

subsided.

‘Is it right that the British lost the battle of New

Orleans?’ shouted Asha Adams.

The Captain hesitated. ‘Yes… yes it is,’ he

stuttered speaking in an unusually subdued voice.

There were deafening cheers of jubilation.

He raised the letter higher in the air. ‘I received

this letter from Mr Beasly a few moments ago,’ he

said before lowering his head to read it.

He quoted: “An agreement has been reachedbetween the British and American governments

and we are making arrangements for all of our

citizens to be repatriated.”

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There was absolute uproar and Dylan Chipp

thinking he was unnoticed began to walk away

from the other prisoners. ‘Come on! We're free!

It's over! What are you waiting for?’ he screamed,

waving his arms wildly as he made his way

towards the Agent.

The prisoners continued to demonstrate their

very special celebration.

Captain Shortland grabbed a rifle from the

nearest guard and began to shake with rage as he

dribbled and swayed, drunk and barely in control.

He pointed the rifle menacingly at Dylan Chipp,

glared at him before he aimed and fired. Dylan

staggered across the yard and slumped to the

ground at Captain Shortland's feet. He lay in the

mud staring up at him, his crazed eyes displaying

his pain and sheer terror.

The euphoria stopped abruptly. There was total silence, everyone stood, rooted

to the spot.

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Hatred is the key

‘I will confirm, the treaty was signed in Ghent,

Belgium on the 24th of December 1814,’ he said

trying to complete the reading of the letter. He

took a deep breath and forced himself to continue

the reading. “Until the agreement is ratified and

we can reach accord as to who is responsible for

the cost of the repatriation of our most loyal

citizens we are unable to confirm a date for their

release.” As he folded the letter he finished,

“Signed Mister Rueben G Beasly… American

Consul and Agent.”

As he slipped the letter into the inside pocket

of his jacket there was uproar and shouts of

disbelief.

Then total silence.

The Agent coughed nervously and then in a

loud voice continued. ‘So you see… you will all be

staying here for a while longer,’ his last wordsdrowned out by the jeers and screams of

disappointment and anger.

Captain Shortland pointed at Dylan Chipp lying

prone in the mud.

‘Take him away… and the rest of you get backto your cells,’ he boomed.

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The prisoner's tempers started to fray and the

discontent quickly grew as they fought amongst

themselves.

‘If any of you are still considering escape…

then I suggest that you think carefully. And

anyone who even makes an attempt to leave this

place will be hunted down,’ screamed the Agent.

Sergeant Greaves made sure that Captain

Shortland had finished before he barked his

orders. ‘Let's go! Get back to your cells… now!’

he ordered cracking his whip indiscriminately.

The guards and militia fixed their bayonets and

jabbed out blindly.

Dylan Chipp screamed out with pain and two

militiamen stepped nervously forward and

dragged him away to the infirmary.

The remaining guards moved slowly towards

the prisoners and prodded them fiercely with theirbayonets until they finally dispersed.

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Chapter eleven

The peat fire cast eerie shadows across the wet

flagstone floors of the Plume of Feather. The

damp rose from the farmers' wet overcoats as the

rain soaked fabric began to dry in the heat.It was noisy and smoky but warm, respite from

the cold moorland night.

Captain Shortland and Squire Irwin sat drinking

cider at a table in a very dark and discreet corner.

‘Captain, it will be spring in a few days. Can't

we get some use out of these Yankees before they

all kill each other or die with the pox?’ asked the

Squire.

‘I don't know about that,’ replied Captain

Shortland as he screwed up his face in

disagreement.

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‘Come, come Captain, these aren't like the

stinking Frenchies. We can at least talk to the

Yankees,’ said the Squire before taking a huge

swig of his cider and emptying the tankard. ‘And,

they speak English….’ He waved his arm in the

air. ‘Alice! Let's have some more cider over here,’

he shouted drunkenly.

Captain Shortland looked at him sternly. ‘That's

why it's more difficult. Most of the Frenchies

couldn't speak English so they couldn't hide that

fact. With the Yankees it's very different.’ He

paused. ‘They do speak English and if they get off

the moor they’ll be away to France or given the

choice back to America,’ he said.

He sucked at his empty pipe deep in thought. ‘I

dunno,’ he said.

Alice walked across to the table carrying two

tankards of cider and before she could place themon the table the Squire grabbed at her buttocks.

‘Squire Irwin!’ teased Alice with a girly giggle.

‘I'll be seeing you later then, Alice?’ whispered

the Squire.

Alice winked at him and skipped off towardsthe bar.

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Graham Sclater

‘She's a good girl,’ mumbled the Squire

through his cider.

Shortland ignored him. ‘Um… I'll give it some

thought, Squire,’ he replied.

Groups of prisoners stood around the yard and

watched as the orderlies carried more dead

prisoners out of the infirmary.

Sergeant Greaves leaned against the Agent's

porch and looked the nearest prisoners up and

down before finally walking towards them and

cracking his whip. As soon as he had their

undivided attention he pointed at those he had

chosen. ‘I want you… you and you. Stand over

there,’ he boomed. He looked another group up

and down before pointing at each individual with

his whip. ‘You, stand over there.’

Peter Beck, Charles Blasden, Miles Longman

and Ram Barley made there way nervously acrossto one side of the yard.

Sergeant Greaves slowly eyed another group

before speaking. ‘You, you,’ he paused, ‘you two

and them,’ he said. ‘Stand over there,’ he

ordered, using his whip to direct them.

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Hatred is the key

Benjamin Beck, William Cole, Marshall

Cunningham, Joshua Amos and Jeremiah Hatch

made up the second group.

‘That'll do, follow me,’ he screamed as he

strutted off towards the gates followed by the

prisoners and their accompanying guards and

militia.

He halted them near the outer wall and they

were chained together in pairs before being

marched beneath the granite arch to wait outside

of the prison. They stood in silence and stared up

at the words carved in the granite and looked

around as it slowly dawned on them realised that

for the first time in months they were in the

outside world.

William Cole broke the silence. ‘Some place

eh?’ he said.

‘Whadever dem gut en store fer us, I's reckonwe'm shou'd dry an' enjoy et,’ said Joshua Amos.

‘It's good be out of there, that's for sure,’ said

William.

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Marshall.

‘Um…,’ mumbled William.A horse and cart pulled alongside them and a

guard handed them picks and shovels.

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Graham Sclater

‘Who knows what they've got in store for us,’

said William apprehensively.

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Hatred is the key

Chapter twelve

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Graham Sclater

On the outskirts of Princetown, Randolph Cox, a

young farm hand, tried desperately to repair a

section of the damaged random stone walled new-

take, containing cattle, sheep and horses. As he

stepped forward to fix a temporary wooden

barrier across the damaged granite wall another

section disintegrated and crashed to the ground.

As he jumped back the animals pushed and

jostled each other nervously. Now in sheer panic

and desperation they forced their way past

Randolph and pushed through the gap in the wall

and raced headlong towards Princetown.

The moorland town square was very busy, farmers

stood in small groups while their wives chatted

animatedly and children chased each other

between the carriages and carts. Except for

Sundays this was one of the few opportunities for

them to play together and for their parents to

catch up on any news.

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Hatred is the key

An armed Marine, resplendent in his red tunic

kept a close eye on Mara as she stood in the

middle of the square and rested her arms on

Priscilla's carriage and shared the latest gossip

with each other. They laughed loudly but

embarrassed at their unladylike outburst glimpsed

around to establish if anyone had taken any

notice.

On the opposite side of the square Thomas

Irwin stood, unnoticed, in a doorway and stared

longingly at Mara.

Peter Beck, Charles Blasden, Miles Longman,

and Ram Barley, under the close scrutiny of two

militiamen, worked nearby repairing the deep

muddy ruts and furrows caused by the overloaded

carts as they made their way to and from the

depot.

Thomas Irwin looked up and saw the terrifiedcattle heading towards the square but turned

away and walked off in the direction of the Duchy

Hotel.

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Graham Sclater

Peter Beck now saw the horses and cattle as

they raced out of control towards the busy square

bearing down on Mara and the Marine who were

oblivious to the impending danger. Without a

thought, Peter leapt between the animals and

Mara pushing her and the Marine to the ground

and safety beneath Priscilla's carriage.

The terrified animals thundered past them and

out of the town square towards the open moor,

leaving the devastation and sheer panic of

screaming parents and crying children in their

wake.

Peter lay motionless face down in the mud.

Mara and the Marine crawled out from beneath

the carriage and rose slowly to their feet.

‘Are you all right, ma'am?’ asked the Marine

nervously.

‘Ye…s, I… I… think so,’ she replied, clearlyshaken.

Peter crawled out from beneath the carriage

and tried to stand but was unable to do so and fell

heavily back into the mud.

Mara knelt over him. ‘You saved my life,’ shemurmured thankfully.

‘And mine,’ gushed the Marine.

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Hatred is the key

Peter could see only a blurred image as the

Marine reached out and helped him to his feet.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Mara, clearly

concerned. She looked at him and waited for his

reply.

‘I can't see.’ He gasped for air. ‘Where are my

glasses?’ asked Peter his hands desperately

feeling their way blindly through the thick mud.

Mara reached down and picked up the twisted

mud encrusted frames and carefully rubbed the

cracked glass before shaking her head to the

Marine. ‘I'm sorry but…,’ she muttered, her voice

still unable to hide her shock.

Peter reached out but before he could speak a

militiaman senselessly jabbed a bayonet into his

ribs and he fell back into the mud for the third

time. ‘Come on, get up! Get over there,’ he

snarled as he pointed his bayonet menacinglytowards the other prisoners.

While Peter Beck lay in the mud Thomas Irwin

ran across the square to join the crowd which had

now gathered around Mara, Peter, the Marine and

militiamen.

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Graham Sclater

‘Dear Mara, thank God you're safe,’ said

Thomas softly. ‘It happened so quickly,’ he looked

around for agreement but there was none. ‘I

didn't see them coming,’ he mumbled, as he

reached across to Mara and made to hold her.

Mara ignored his words and pushed him aside.

His sister, Priscilla Irwin, the disgust clearly

showing on her face, spat with anger.

‘Thomas, why didn't you do something to

help?’ she screamed.

Her brother ignored her and turned away.

Ram Barley and Charles Blasden picked Peter

up and manhandled him awkwardly towards the

prison.

The militiamen clearly confused by the

situation followed, their bayonets fixed and

pointed half heartedly in the direction of the

prisoners.Mara looked on helplessly. ‘Take care of him,’

she mouthed, her whole body quivering with

shock.

Still visibly distraught, the Marine assisted her,

by holding her arm, as they picked their waythrough the crowd and deep mud.

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Hatred is the key

Peter moaned in pain as an exhausted Ram

Barley and Charles Blasden manhandled him

awkwardly through the gates and into the

infirmary.

‘Put him on there and I'll have a look at him,’

ordered Doctor MacGrath pointing at the well

scrubbed operating table.

While the Doctor prepared his instruments his

assistant looked Peter over and thoughtlessly tore

at his bloodstained shirt and mud encased shoes.

Mara walked into the infirmary and stood at the

door while the Doctor examined Peter's bleeding

chest damaged by the broken protruding ribs

before cutting through his trousers and

concentrating on his crushed right leg.

The Doctor shook his head as he wiped away

the blood and mud. ‘I'm afraid, it's gonna have to

come off,’ he said as he reached for the saw.Mara broke down. ‘You can't!’ she screamed.

Peter struggled to speak. ‘Please no…,’ he said

shaking his head violently. ‘Ram you gotta help

me,’ he begged.

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Graham Sclater

Ram Barley, clearly agitated, approached the

Doctor. ‘Training and riding horses is all the boy

knows. If you take 'is leg off you may as well kill

him… right here! Right now!’ he screamed.

‘Surely, there's something you can do, Doctor

MacGrath?’ pleaded Mara. ‘He saved my life.

Please help him!’ she screamed.

The Doctor looked at her in disbelief.

‘He did!’ she said taking a huge gulp of air. ‘He

saved my life,’ she repeated softly.

Ram and Charles nodded in agreement their

faces clearly affected by her heightened emotion.

‘Give him a chance, doctor,’ pleaded Ram

Barley.

‘Please… you gotta try,’ begged Charles

Blasden.

Doctor MacGrath looked at his assistant and

then Mara before carefully selecting a scalpelfrom a battered ornate hardwood case. ‘If that's

what you want. I'm going to cut out some of this,’

he said as he pulled back the shredded skin and

poked at the damaged muscle and tissue. ‘And

stitch it up,’ he said as he shook his head. ‘Whoknows?’ he murmured.

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Hatred is the key

He began by removing the damaged flesh and

then stopped, his face displaying deep concern.

‘But I'll tell you this, if gangrene sets in then it'll

be him or this leg,’ he said firmly.

‘I'll come and see him every day,’ sobbed

Mara.

The Doctor looked up at Ram and Charles,

smiled briefly and winked.

‘I shall look forward to seeing you, Miss

Shortland,’ he said.

Ram Barley and Charles Blasden nearly choked

with shock.

Peter flinched and looked across at them as

they all thought very different thoughts.

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Chapter thirteen

191



Hatred is the key

Sergeant Greaves, six militiamen and two guards

marched Benjamin Beck, Thomas Johnson, Robert

Stapley and a number of other prisoners out of

the depot and along the moorland track towards

the quarry.

Henrietta and Alex drove their flock of sheep

across the narrow track and the prisoners stopped

to let them pass. Benjamin Beck and Henrietta

looked intensely at each other, immediately

attracted to one another. Sergeant Greaves

noticed and cracked his whip causing Benjamin to

slip and fall down a gulley.

Robert looked nervously across at the Sergeant

and climbed down to help Benjamin up onto the

track. The two girls giggled as they walked off

across the moor turning back every few yards to

stare at the prisoners.

In the quarry Benjamin Beck, Thomas Johnson,Robert Stapley and the other prisoners hacked at

the huge granite rocks and made little impression

-- the weeks in captivity and long periods of

inactivity had left them weak and tired.

‘Put some effort into it or you'll feel myleather!’ screamed Sergeant Greaves blindly

fingering his whip before cracking it threateningly.

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Graham Sclater

The weary prisoners immediately stopped

working and stood motionless.

The Sergeant clearly incensed by the display of

defiance strode across to them and bellowed in

their faces. ‘Hurry up! I want that section broken

out before we go back,’ he screamed his face

scarlet with rage. He turned and as he did so he

took a huge breath before turning and cracking

his whip like a man possessed. ‘I said now! Get

yerselves up and get on with it!’ he bawled.

The guards and militiamen nervously fingered

the triggers of their rifles.

Conscious of the heightening tension, the

prisoners returned to their task of breaking out

the granite boulders until late into the afternoon.

By now it was clear to Sergeant Greaves they

were near to physical exhaustion. He smirked at

the guards and militia before screaming out hisorders. ‘Come on, let's go,’ he bellowed. ‘That's

enough for today.’ He turned and stepped towards

each of them in turn and grinned widely. ‘We've

got tomorrow… and the next… and the next,’ he

paused, ‘in fact… we've got as long as it takes,’he said slowly, relishing every word.

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Hatred is the key

As they loaded their tools onto the cart and

waited to begin the long and difficult journey back

to the depot the Sergeant's words were still on

their minds and showed clearly on their shocked

faces.

The late afternoon sun was low in the cloudless

sky as the prisoners stumbled across the moor.

Their fatigue was clearly visible as they were

marched through a wood until they reached a

clearing and a crystal clear stream making its way

down to join the river Dart.

They made to cross the clapper bridge but

Sergeant Greaves bellowed his orders. ‘Stay

where you are,’ he said.

They group stopped abruptly.

‘Stinking Yankees could all do with a wash? Is

that right, lads?’ he shouted.

The loud cheers from the militiamen andguards answered Sergeant’s question. ‘Strip off

and get yerselves in there!’ he screamed. He

turned and smirked to the militiamen and guards.

‘Get on with it, all of ya, strip off and get yer pale

Yankee arses in there or you'll go in as you are,’he threatened.

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Graham Sclater

The prisoners looked back at him in sheer

disbelief.

‘C'mon Sergeant, you don't really expect us to

get into that?’ pleaded Benjamin Beck.

‘It's freezing in there,’ moaned Robert Stapley.

Sergeant Greaves cracked his whip and the

guards lowered there bayoneted rifles

menacingly.

‘You 'eard what I said,’ he looked at them long

and hard. ‘Do it!’ he said pausing and flexing his

right arm. ‘Now!’ he screamed cracking his whip.

Henrietta and Alex were walking their sheep

along the granite ridge when they heard the whip

and anguished screams of the prisoners-of-war in

the valley below.

Without a word they looked at each other and

crawled through the heather and long grass

towards the edge of the ridge and peered down. The sisters watched, shocked and wide-eyed at

seeing the naked prisoners in the freezing water

beneath them.

Their dogs barked excitedly and several sheep

panicked and raced towards the edge, two of them sliding down the steep slope and falling into

the water below.

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Hatred is the key

Without thinking, the naked Benjamin and

Thomas chased and caught the sheep and placed

them unharmed on the bank on the opposite side

of the river.

Benjamin looked up and noticed Henrietta and

Alex peering down at him before they disappeared

from view behind a boulder.

Sergeant Greaves cracked his whip wildly.

‘Come on, get out of there and get dressed!’ he

ordered.

The prisoners made the futile attempt to dry

themselves in the now biting easterly wind.

Henrietta turned to her younger sister. ‘You

stay 'ere and look after 'em,’ she said pointing at

the rest of the sheep.

She left Alex on the top of the ridge and

climbed effortlessly down the rock face.

She grabbed the sheep and as she made totake the path she turned to Benjamin. ‘Thank you,

sir,’ she said blushing.

Sergeant Greaves stood watching feeding his

whip through his thick fingers. ‘Get away from

her,’ he boomed.

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Graham Sclater

Benjamin ignored him and reached down,

picked a primrose and handed it to the teenage

girl.

As she was acknowledging him with a wide

smile the whip cracked taking the flower from

between her delicate fingers splitting it in two.

Benjamin lost his temper and raced towards

Sergeant Greaves, and, as the guards pulled back

the hammers on their rifles Robert and Thomas

grabbed Benjamin and forcefully dragged him

away.

‘Let me go!’ seethed Benjamin.

The Sergeant grinned widely, bent down and

picked another primrose and passed it to

Henrietta.

‘Thank you, Sergeant Greaves, it's very nice,’

she lied.

As soon as Benjamin saw this he renewed hisefforts to break away from Robert and Thomas but

with considerable effort they managed to hold him

firm.

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The Sergeant smiled and turned to tease

Benjamin. ‘Thank you, Henrietta,’ he said. He

clearly found it hard to pay any sort of

compliment to anyone and blushed as he spoke.

‘It's as pretty as you are,’ he said flatteringly.

Henrietta turned and as she left picked up the

two pieces of primrose, climbed the slope,

dropped the whole flower and turned back and

smiled at Benjamin.

Sergeant Greaves immediately went berserk

cracking his whip uncontrollably. ‘Let's go!’ he

screamed wildly. ‘Get a move along there!’

The remainder of the journey was torturous as

the Sergeant forced the prisoners to make the

journey at breakneck speed causing many of

them to slip and injure themselves on the rough

terrain.

Benjamin Beck and his fellow prisoners finallymade their way through the prison gates and into

the yard.

‘Wait there!’ bellowed Sergeant Greaves

overflowing with anger.

‘What the hell's he doing now?’ mumbledBenjamin.

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The Sergeant suddenly flipped cracked his

whip and ensnared Benjamin's leg. ‘Take him

away!’ he screamed.

Several guards rushed forward and grabbed

Benjamin and dragged him towards the cachot .

Henrietta and Alex aided by their dogs chased the

sheep into their pen and walked towards the

cottage.

Alex looked up at her sister and gave her a

wide grin. ‘Do you love 'im?’ she teased.

‘'Course I don't,’ blushed Henrietta.

Throughout their evening meal Henrietta sat in

silence and played with her food.

‘What's up with you tonight, Henrietta?’ asked

her father.

‘She's got a boyfriend,’ blurted out Alex.

‘Have yer now?’ said Harold Thomson. ‘It's

about time. I could do with a 'and around the

farm… and in me workshop.’ He placed his fork

on the table and reflected. ‘I won't always be

around,’ he said teasing them.

‘'Ee's a prisoner at the depot ya know,’ gushed

Alex.

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‘What?’ exclaimed her father. ‘A Yankee

prisoner…?’ he finished his dinner. ‘What the hell

are they doin' on the moor?’ he asked himself.

Alex nodded while Henrietta kicked out at her.

Henrietta lay on her bed, held the two pieces of

the primrose between her fingers, and tried to

remember everything about the day. She openeda book and carefully laid the two pieces of

primrose between the pages and closed it. She

kissed the book and pulled it tight against her

chest.

‘You do, I know you do,’ teased Alex.

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Chapter fourteen

201



Hatred is the key

Marshall Cunningham, Joshua Amos, Jeremiah

Hatch and young Sylas, worked in the copse at

the edge of the garden chopping and sawing

fallen branches and stacking them neatly at the

edge of the garden. William Cole, Henry Sterling,

Miles Longman and Dylan Chipp were cutting back

overgrown shrubs and removing smaller pieces of

granite from the moor and carrying it to the

perimeter of the vast lawn. They were chained in

pairs at the ankle and this restricted their

movement and any chance of escape.

Thomas and Priscilla Irwin cantered onto the

estate and down the gravel drive towards the

working prisoners.

William Cole looked on and drooled as Priscilla

trotted past him.

Jeremiah Hatch dug him in the ribs. ‘You're

wasting your time even thinking about it. She's alady….’ He paused. ‘Wouldn't look at you twice,’

he smirked and continued, ‘even if you were a

free man,’ he said.

‘I can dream can't I?’ retorted William Cole.

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The riders stopped briefly and while Joshua and

Jeremiah both stared at the beautiful young

woman, William clenched his fists and glared at

Thomas.

‘I'm more interested in killin' 'im. Don't

forget….’ He stood and screamed out

uncontrollably. ‘He killed our Captain in cold

blood!’ He tightened his fists and screwed his face

in anger.

Thomas whipped his horse viciously and

followed closely by Priscilla rode off towards the

stables. The militiamen raced across to William

and lashed out at him indiscriminately with their

rifles knocking him to the ground and kicking him.

Dylan Chipp and Marshall Cunningham carried

armfuls of logs into the barn and fell exhausted

onto the straw. Marshall felt something in his back

and pushed the straw away to reveal a clay flask.He pushed away more straw and found two more.

They each opened a flask, smelt the contents

cautiously and simultaneously took huge swigs

followed by several more before falling back into

the straw. They lay and smiled to each other in asemi-drunken stupor.

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Hatred is the key

‘This tastes expensive,’ slurred Dylan Chipp as

the alcohol took effect.

‘Anything would taste expensive after the

months in that place,’ said Marshall.

‘Maybe,’ replied Dylan taking yet another slug

of the alcohol. ‘Surely we can get away from

here?’ he slurred.

‘No way,’ replied Marshall. ‘I don't want to end

up like that Frenchie, ripped to bits by them

hounds,’ he said, as he remembered the day they

arrived at the depot.

‘I don't see why not,’ said Dylan Chipp. ‘If we're

gonna do it, then it has to be soon,’ he said taking

another gulp from the flask.

They rejoined the group ensuring for the rest of

the day that they kept well away from the guards

who would have certainly smelt the cognac on

their breath. The following day the prisoners sat under the

trees at the edge of the large garden and waited.

‘We ain't going nowhere, can't we have these

things off?’ asked Dylan.

‘We'll be able to get more work done if wedidn't,’ said Marshall.

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The guards conversed and after several

minutes of discussion unlocked the manacles and

removed them.

‘They go back on before we leave 'ere,’ said

the militia sergeant.

Collectively, the prisoners nodded their

agreement.

The militiamen and guards sat near the main

house concentrating their efforts on gorging

themselves on the delicious food supplied by the

Squire's cook.

Marshall Cunningham looked around, closed his

eyes and nodded slowly.

The prisoners-of-war waiting for the agreed

signal suddenly sprang into action and made a

dash through the copse towards the moor. The

Marines and militiamen were caught totally

unawares and it was several seconds before theywere able to collect their rifles, firing haphazardly

in the direction of the escaping prisoners before

making a token pursuit and chasing after them.

William Cole reached the edge of the estate

but tripped and fell heavily. The guards immediately grabbed him and beat

him before dragging him back to the lawn.

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Hatred is the key

In the mayhem Marshall Cunningham, Joshua

Amos, Jeremiah Hatch, Miles Longman, Henry

Sterling and Dylan Chipp managed to get onto the

moor and disappear from view hiding amongst the

bracken and gorse.

Squire and Thomas Irwin rode in from Tavistock

to witness the chaos as the militiamen and

Marines were deciding what they should do next

and who should do it.

Realising that the prisoners had escaped

Thomas hung back nervously.

‘What the hell is going on?’ snarled the Squire

through his gritted teeth.

‘They've escaped, sir,’ replied the nearest

guard.

The Squire looked down at the injured William

Cole. ‘I can take care of him, he said. ‘Don't let

any of them get away. Shoot 'em if you have to,’he fumed.

The Squire now turned his attention to Thomas.

‘You go with them,’ he said. Still eying the

cowering prisoner he lowered his voice. ‘And be

careful,’ he said softly.

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Thomas nodded and reluctantly raced off

across the moor followed by a handful of the

militia and guards taking up the rear on foot.

Priscilla Irwin sat at the window and had

watched the escape attempt unfold and smiled to

herself pleased that William had not gone out onto

the wild moor.

As the night drew in Marshall Cunningham, Joshua

Amos, Jeremiah Hatch, Miles Longman, Henry

Sterling and Dylan Chipp wandered aimlessly in

the thick mist. Joshua tripped and fell into a gully,

badly cutting his leg, twisting his ankle and

damaging his arm and shoulder. Marshall followed

cautiously several yards behind and without

acknowledging Joshua he passed him and broke

into a run before disappearing into the darkness.

Dylan, Miles and Henry veered off in another

direction but disregarding the treacherous terrainthey soon tripped and Dylan and Henry fell

heavily into the bog and began to sink.

‘Get us out of here!’ screamed Dylan Chipp.

‘I can't, I'm sinking too,’ moaned Henry Sterling

in a desperate high pitched voice.

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Hatred is the key

Miles continued to make good progress and

was already several yards ahead. He hesitated

when he heard the cries, looked back and then

continued.

‘Miles! Come on man, get me out!’ screamed

Henry, his voice fading into the night.

Miles stopped again and hearing the continuing

pleas for help looked back into the darkness and

after a few moments of careful consideration

walked slowly back towards them.

‘Come on there boy… get me out… help your

old friend, that's a good fella,’ said Dylan Chipp,

feigning sincerity.

Miles stood glaring at him.

‘Miles! Over here! Come on Miles, I'm gonna

die,’ he took a deep breath and began to beg

again. ‘Over here,’ pleaded Dylan carefully

choosing every word to coax the only person whocould save his life. It had the desired effect and

Miles walked out of the night took stock of the

situation and slid along on his stomach, reached

out and slowly pulled Henry out of the bog.

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‘Thank you,’ muttered Henry. ‘Thank you very

much Miles, you are a true gentleman. You could

have left me to die… thank you… thank you…,’ he

repeated continuously.

‘Mmm… mm… Miles come on, boy,’ he

stuttered. ‘How about me?’ screamed Dylan Chipp

sinking ever deeper into the bog.

He struggled to breathe as the dark foul water

entered his mouth.

‘Stop struggling or you'll sink deeper,’ shouted

Henry.

Miles stood looking down at his owner and

remembered his years as a slave and the vicious

treatment this man had meted out to him.

Carefully choosing every word he mimicked

Charles Blasden's voice and in a high pitched tone

he spoke. ‘Save yerself, if you can… ma Lord,’ he

said before turning and running off into the night.Dylan now focused his attention on Henry

‘Come on, Henry, get me out!’ he screamed.

Henry Sterling stood shivering and shocked at

the edge of the bog unsure of where he was or

what was happening to him.

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Hatred is the key

‘Come on, man, just get me out!’ screamed a

very desperate Dylan Chipp. ‘Come on! Help m…,’

he mouthed as he disappeared beneath the dark

peat soaked quagmire.

Henry slowly came to his senses and searched

through the bracken and gorse until he found a

suitable branch. He lay down on his stomach and

edged anxiously towards Dylan.

‘That's it… that's it, you're nearly there,’

coaxed Dylan.

Henry stretched the final few inches until Dylan

could reach the branch. He grabbed at it pulled

himself from the treacherous bog and stood

shaking beside his rescuer.

‘There you are, we made it,’ said a much

relieved Dylan.

He looked out into the darkness. ‘As for that

black bastard….’ He shivered uncontrollably. ‘I'llhave 'im flogged when I catch up with him,’ he

cursed before taking a deep breath. He turned his

head in disgust at the revolting smell of the

rotting bog and removed his jacket. He screwed it

up and forcefully squeezed it out but as he did sohis elbow brushed against the trembling Henry

Sterling and accidentally pushed his rescuer.

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Graham Sclater

Henry fell back into the deep bog and looked

up to Dylan shaking his head in absolute terror.

‘It's your turn to help me now, Dylan,’ begged

Henry.

Dylan glared back at him.

Henry's face conveyed his sheer panic as he

screamed out. ‘Dylan surely you will help me?’

begged the drowning prisoner. He took a deep

gasp and screamed out again. ‘Have you no

compassion, man!’

Dylan made no attempt to help him, instead he

stood and lacking any sign of emotion watched in

silence as Henry Sterling took his last breath

before disappearing beneath the bog. His eye

patch floated to the surface, the only marker left

of his previous existence.

Mara pushed her food around the plate. ‘One of

the Americans saved my life today,’ she said

quietly.

‘I heard about it,’ replied her father swallowing

hard. ‘Calling them Americans are we now?’ he

asked. ‘They're our enemies for God sake,’ he

raged.

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Hatred is the key

‘Well… I don't like how you and Greaves refer

to them,’ she said defensively.

Her father put down his knife and glared hard

at her his eyes staring into her very soul.

‘Yankees, that's what they are… Yankees!

Calling them by a different name won't change

what or who they are,’ he said forcefully.

Mara nodded her agreement. ‘All right,

Yankees,’ she replied softly. She looked directly

at her father before she spoke. ‘Can I visit him in

the infirmary?’ she asked lowering her voice.

‘Who is he?’ enquired her father taking a

massive gulp of his wine.

‘I don't know his name,’ she lied.

Her father lit a cigar and blew huge clouds of

smoke across the table. ‘I don't see why not,’ he

said swallowing the rest of the wine before

pouring himself another glass. ‘According toGeorge MacGrath he's in a real bad way,’ he said

knowingly before stabbing the last piece of beef

with his knife and pushing it past the cigar and

into his smoke filled mouth.

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Chapter fifteen

213



Hatred is the key

There was a strained silence in the Squire's

drawing room as everyone contemplated what

had happened and how Captain Shortland might

react to the news.

Priscilla sat near the fire while Squire Irwin

paced the floor, taking huge gulps of cognac as he

walked. He finally snapped angrily and turned to

face William Cole before he staggered across to

him.

The Squire looked directly into William's face.

‘They must be mad!’ he screamed. ‘There's no

way any of them will get off the moor alive.

Shortland will kill 'em all when he catches up with

'em,’ he smiled a drunken smile. ‘And, mark my

words… he will…. ’

William Cole couldn't remain silent any longer

and interrupted the Squire. ‘If, he catches them,

sir,’ he retorted.‘Who spoke to you?’ replied the Squire curtly

before pouring yet another cognac and smirking

to himself as he slipped into his favourite arm

chair. ‘In a way, boy, I suppose you were the lucky

one,’ he grinned, pushing himself deep into hisfavourite chair.

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Graham Sclater

Priscilla coughed nervously before speaking.

‘Father, he wasn't trying to escape. He was

chasing them,’ she said.

‘What?’ uttered her father. ‘Was he really? Do

you expect me to believe that nonsense?’ he

sniggered.

‘That's right, sir,’ said William Cole. ‘I was

trying to catch them. Mmm… uh to persuade

them not to run.’ He looked across at Priscilla and

smiled. ‘You're right, sir. They must be totally mad

to even attempt an escape,’ he said.

The Squire thought before answering. ‘All

right,’ he pondered sipping at his cognac. ‘But if I

hear any different I'll personally have you

flogged,’ he said.

Priscilla seized the moment. ‘Father, can

William come here again?’ she asked softly.

‘What did you say?’ asked a stunned ThomasIrwin.

She turned to face her brother and glared at

him.

Priscilla now turned to her father. ‘Well, he's no

threat and how can he possibly go anywhere likethat?’ she asked, ‘he can hardly walk let alone

run.’ She said, pointing at William's bleeding legs.

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Hatred is the key

‘Perhaps,’ replied her father.

Priscilla smiled while her brother fired a furious

look across at her and beat his clenched fists on

the arms of the leather chair.

The Squire pushed himself awkwardly out of his

chair and coughed loudly. ‘Yankee, you'd best get

something done to them legs,’ he scoffed before

staggering drunkenly out of the room.

The snow continued to fall heavily and within an

hour it had formed deep drifts across the moor

making it impassable.

Sergeant Greaves hammered on Captain

Shortland's door before bursting in on him.

The Captain was drinking the last few drops of

what had been an almost full a bottle of rum.

‘We've lost the prisoners, sir,’ the Sergeant

blurted out excitedly.

‘Lost? How can you lose…?’ he thought to

himself, ‘six prisoners?’

‘They escaped from the working party at Squire

Irwin's estate, sir,’ he said.

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Hatred is the key

He leaned against a large fir tree and the thick

powdery snow fell onto his head and shoulders,

clogging his already matted hair to his head and

freezing in seconds.

He tried to brush it from his already wet

clothes and as he looked out onto the glistening

landscape he shook with a combination of pain,

cold and foreboding.

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Graham Sclater

Joshua partially closed his tired eyes, screwed

up his face and rapidly became accustomed to the

bright reflections of the moon across the white

surreal landscape. He summoned his strength,

decided on a direction and grabbed at a fallen

branch, removed the smaller pieces and fashioned

a walking stick. He pushed himself away from the

tree and struggled through the deep drifts, the

light wind that always followed snow blew across

his frozen face. In an attempt to avoid the

invisible dangers hidden deep beneath the snow

he used his stick as a probe thrusting it deep into

the drifts before moving cautiously forward. He

continued for several hours and as the sky

lightened with the impending dawn he noticed

smoke billowing up into the sky a short distance

from him. He took a deep pained breath and

dragged his damaged body painfully across thefrozen landscape towards the smoke. As he got

nearer he noticed a flickering light in the window

of the isolated cottage.

Joshua made one final effort and reached the

cottage. He sneaked around the granite buildinguntil he reached the illuminated window, crouched

down and peered through the shutters.

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Hatred is the key

The only light came from a candle which

flickered on a table near the window and the burnt

out embers in the fire place. A man was asleep in

a chair near the fire and younger woman sat at

the table mixing coloured liquids that boiled and

bubbled in front of her.

He pulled back suddenly and slipped, falling

heavily against the pile of logs stowed along the

wall.

Hearing the crashing logs the man awoke and

jumped from his chair causing it to smash against

the table and the woman to react with a start, her

flaying arms smashing some of the glass phials

and spilling the bubbling liquid onto the flagstone

floor.

‘What de?’ she cursed angrily.

The man looked across at the woman, put his

finger to his mouth, lit a lantern and made his waywarily towards the door. He opened the door wide

enough to enable him to push the lantern outside

and moved it from side to side illuminating the

immediate area.

He saw nothing and began to close the door.

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Graham Sclater

‘Please 'elp ma, massa,’ moaned an exhausted

Joshua Amos. ‘…'and ma over if ya wunt… jut git

me outta dis,’ he pleaded.

The man hearing the pleas for help opened the

door wide, stepped outside and cautiously made

his way through the snow until his lantern lit up

the escaped prisoner's terrified and pained face.

The man leaned forward to help Joshua but he

resisted his assistance pulling his arms away as

he made a futile attempt to stand.

‘Do 'ee want us to 'elp 'ee or not?’ cursed the

man, through his frozen breath. He forcefully

dragged the terrified and exhausted stranger

uncertainly towards the door.

‘Can 'ee listen to 'n squaalin,’ shouted the man.

‘Give us an 'and will 'ee!’

Joshua now slipped into a state of

unconsciousness.‘Look at 'th great gawk, 'ee be a-veered 'o a

little ole appledrane,’ he said.

The young woman appeared at the door and

after furtively looking around helped the man to

manhandle the stranger into the cottage, slidinghim along the floor and propping him against the

chair in front of the fire.

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Hatred is the key

‘Th' zo 'n zo be praaper tizzicky,’ said the man.

The woman nodded and cleaned the coloured

liquid from the flagstone floor while the man

raked the wood embers, and, after carefully

selecting the smallest and driest logs, he placed

them on the fire.

Joshua remained propped awkwardly against

the chair but as the logs ignited, the heat slowly

caused the ice to melt and run down his black

cheeks. The Stranger gradually regained

consciousness and as he shivered uncontrollably

his teeth cut deep into his bottom lip. He licked at

the warm blood as it ran down his chin and tried

to wipe the residue away but unable to control his

still frozen hands and coordinate his movements

his efforts were futile.

The dry logs suddenly burst into flames,

illuminating every part of the room.As the ice thawed on his encrusted eye lids and

the ice cold water ran down his pock marked face

he was gradually able to open his eyes and focus,

and take in his surroundings.

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Dried toads, frogs, rats and animals heads

filled every corner; small cages held live rats and

mice and in a glass tank frogs and newts made

exhaustive and futile attempts to escape by

clawing their way up the glass and falling down

again.

Witches effects were everywhere.

The woman turned to face him and for the first

time he noticed her disfigured face.

Although Joshua desperately wanted to escape

he couldn't move his faculties temporarily

destroyed. At that moment a look of abject terror

was etched into his already pained expression and

now absolutely petrified he lost all control and

pissed himself.

‘There's nothin' to worry 'bout,’ whispered the

woman reassuringly as she bent down beside him

and wiped the blood and remaining ice from hisfear stricken face.

‘Let's get them clathers off 'im, or 'ee'll die of

pneumonia,’ said the man flashing a concerned

look towards the woman.

‘But 'ee can't stay there,’ said the womanpointing at the roaring fire.

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Hatred is the key

Unable to speak, Joshua looked at her and

asked her a question with his eyes.

She looked at him and understood what he was

unable to say.

She smiled before speaking. ‘No, I meant yer'll

get too 'ot if 'ee stays that close to the fire and

that's bad fer 'ee,’ she said and continued clearly

anxious, ‘it'll put fever in yer blood.’

The man smiled at him and left the room to

return with a metal bath, which he placed in front

of the now roaring fire and filled it with water from

the kettle hanging above the fire mixing it with

cold water from the well.

As the man stooped to fill the bath Joshua

noticed his severely hunched back for the first

time and stiffened.

Without warning the woman reached for a

razor sharp knife and lunged towards him. Withexacting precision she sliced through his wet

clothes, tore them from his emaciated and scared

body and threw them onto the fire to sizzle before

bursting into flames.

Noticing his terrified reaction the woman spokesoftly. ‘You be in the best place, so don't 'ee

worry,’ she said.

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Graham Sclater

Joshua didn't hear her. His fear turned to abject

horror.

Instead he sat wide eyed and dumb struck, his

eyes darting wildly between the man and woman

before staring blindly at his clothes burning on the

fire.

She shook her head knowingly, moved close to

him and smiled before speaking in a voice of pure

velvet. ‘Us told 'ee not to worry.’ She smiled

again. ‘Us'll look after 'ee,’ she said. ‘Me and me

brother, Phinias, 'arm good at what us do's,’ she

said proudly.

Joshua began to relax and nodded

enthusiastically.

‘That's better,’ said the man looking across at

his sister. ‘As you 'eard, I'm Phinias and me

sister's name is, Giselle.’

Phinias smiled at her proudly and she grinnedat Joshua.

‘What's yer name?’ asked Phinias with genuine

interest in his voice.

Joshua gave him a quizzical look.

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Hatred is the key

Giselle tapped Joshua on the shoulder. ‘Don't

'ee worry,’ she said. ‘We can see 'ee be frum the

depot,’ she looked across to her brother. ‘It don't

bother us 't all… ain't that right Phinias?’ asked

Giselle.

Phinias nodded his agreement.

Joshua swallowed hard and licked at his lips

before speaking. ‘I be Joshua Amos, frum Number

Three Block,’ he replied. He picked the dried

blood from the corners of his mouth and

continued. ‘I wuz a slave an da Libertine,’ he said

and paused suddenly, ‘…captured by ya British….’

He looked at them and continued slowly. ‘In

a…,’ he reflected and wiped his tearful eyes. ‘In a

bloody battle,’ he said sadly, his wide eyes

flooding with tears.

Sensing his wretchedness Phinias interrupted

him. ‘Cum on, let's get 'ee in that there bath andwe can clean them wounds and 'elp 'ee git better,’

he said.

‘We'll soon 'ave 'ee better,’ she said

reassuringly. ‘Just you zee.’

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Graham Sclater

Under cover of the cloudy night and shrouded in

thick mist a hooded figure carrying a wooden cask

made its way across the expansive courtyard and

entered the stable block. The horses kicked out

nervously as the figure pulled back the straw, laid

the cask in one of the stalls and partially covered

it before leaving unnoticed.

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Hatred is the key

Chapter sixteen

The snow was thawing fast when Captain

Shortland arrived at the Squire Irwin's estate with

his dogs and a group of militiamen and Marines to

join the hunt for the escapees.

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Graham Sclater

Squire Irwin and Thomas were already

mounted on their horses and Priscilla sat in the

carriage with her mother.

The Captain touched his hat. ‘Good morning,

Mrs Irwin, Priscilla,’ he said courteously.

‘Good morning, Captain,’ replied Mrs Irwin.

‘Are you riding with us, ma'am… miss?’ he

asked.

‘Certainly not, Captain,’ replied Priscilla curtly.

‘We're going into Tavistock,’ replied Mrs Irwin

trying to defuse the obvious tension.

Priscilla looked nervously at the dogs, their fur

already thick with mud, as they ran around

excitedly in the deep brown slush. ‘Captain, do

you think they are really necessary?’ she asked.

‘After all… the American prisoners are human

beings.’

The Captain moved nearer to the carriageclearly affected by her comment.

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Hatred is the key

‘Human! They're not human, ma'am. If you

saw what I have to look at every day you couldn't

possibly say that,’ he said shaking with anger.

‘Come Squire! Thomas! Let's catch 'em all before

lunch. Dead or alive!’ he screamed as he dug his

boot heels deep into his horses flank and raced off

followed by the hounds.

‘I'll wager a guinea, I bag the first Yankee,’

shouted the Squire as he chased after Captain

Shortland.

The dogs barked excitedly having already

picked up the scent and Captain Shortland raced

across the moor, followed by the baying hounds

while Squire Irwin and Thomas tried to keep up

with him.

Many of the dogs became extremely excited

and ran towards a jagged outcrop of rock. As they

reached it Dylan Chipp jumped out, grabbed theinjured Miles Longman and pulled him up. They

both stood shivering, wet, hungry and very tired.

‘Here he is!’ shouted Dylan Chipp frantically

waving his arms.

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The dogs, smelling blood, snapped at the

slave's already ripped and lacerated legs, while

others jumped at his arms, their teeth digging

deep into his already pained and bleeding flesh.

Miles totally shocked by Dylan Chipp's action

ignored the pain, glared at him and pushed his

arms away. ‘Next dime, I will kill ya,’ he

threatened as he gritted his teeth in unbounded

rage.

Ignoring Dylan Chipp's shouts Captain

Shortland fired off his instructions to the nearest

Marines. ‘You stay with these two. I'll be back

with the others. They can't be far away now,’ he

said.

He looked at the Squire. ‘And that's a guinea

you owe me,’ he said before racing off once again

followed closely by his yapping dogs.

Marshall Cunningham had taken refuge a shortdistance away in a warrener's shelter but the dogs

soon found him and it wasn't long before he was

tethered to Miles and Dylan.

Asha Adams ran into the market square. ‘There's

been a breakout!’ he shouted gasping for breath.

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Hatred is the key

Everyone stopped and there was a surreal

silence while they waited for confirmation.

‘I said,’ he spun around and looked at his fellow

prisoners before allowing a wide grin to fill his

emaciated face. ‘I said…,’ he paused, ‘…there's

been a breakout!’ he screamed. ‘They've

escaped… they've escaped…’ he repeated.

As if on cue the whole prison erupted into

thunderous shouts, whoops and whistles of

celebration.

‘Let's hope they give 'emselves up before

Shortland finds 'em,’ mumbled Charles Blasden

biting at his top lip and wiping the blood with his

filthy left hand.

As always the prison market was bustling with

prisoners but this time they talked excitedly about

the escape, while the militia and guards looked to

spend their allowances.

Henrietta and Alex stood behind their stall

selling home made cakes and wool.

Robert Stapley and Thomas Johnson walked

past their stall.

Henrietta recognized them and attracted their

attention. ‘Is 'ee all right?’ she asked nervously.

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Graham Sclater

‘Who?’ they asked simultaneously.

Alex blurted out unthinkingly.

‘Your friend….’ She paused and nudged her

sister, ‘the Yankee who gave her the primrose,’

she said.

‘Well, your friend …,’ he shot her an angry look,

‘the Sergeant, as you call him, had him thrown

into the cachot . If you think that's all right?’ he

said sarcastically.

‘Friend? Cachot ? What did 'ee do, sir?’ she

asked.

‘Maybe you should ask the Sergeant,’ said

Robert gritting his teeth and seething with anger.

‘Your friend… remember?’ interrupted Thomas.

‘The evil bastard was jealous, surely you could

see that? That's why he put him in there,’ said

Robert.

He waited for a response. There was none.He continued, ‘Benjamin didn't deserve that.’

‘Benjamin?’ repeated Henrietta as she looked

in the direction of the cachot . ‘Benjamin,’ she

said softly, as she smiled and repeated his name

for the third time.

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Thomas Johnson moved towards her and

whispered in her ear. ‘He'll be fine,’ he nodded,

‘that one can look after himself that's fer sure.’

‘I hope you be right,’ she said.

In the darkest and most discreet area of the

market Phinias and Giselle stood behind their

stall. They displayed varying sized bottles of

different coloured liquid, pieces of bone, coloured

stones and glass phials containing powders of all

colours, dried rats and frogs.

Two guards walked up to their stall, made to

inspect the dried creatures and muttered to each

other before speaking out. ‘What do you evil, ugly

bastards think you're doing here?’ asked one of

them.

‘If that's shits any good why 'aven't ya used

'em yerselves,’ asked the other with a snigger

before laughing loudly as he walked away.Ram Barley waited for the guards to leave and

made to speak to Giselle.

She spoke to him before he opened his mouth.

‘'Ave 'ee vaught blid?’ she asked.

Ram looked at her but was unable to speak.

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Graham Sclater

She smiled knowingly and motioned to him to

join her behind her stall. Nervously he moved

towards her and she pulled out a milking stool.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and

shouted to Phinias who was serving a black

prisoner. ‘'Ee've got vaught blid?’

Phinias nodded to her and returned to weigh

the green powder. He placed it in a clean piece of

white linen, folded it carefully and handed it to the

Negro. Phinias lowered his head to the prisoner,

smiled and gently touched his shoulder before

turning to assist Giselle.

‘I can 'elp 'ee,’ she said in a soft velvet voice.

‘Sit 'ee down 'ere.’

She pushed Ram gently onto the stool and

smiled at him again before turning to check her

phials, powders and potions. She carefully

selected beeswax, sulphur and a little British oiland measured it before handing it to Phinias. She

whispered her instructions to him and he

proceeded to crush the ingredients into a paste in

a pestle and mortar. When he was satisfied with

the texture he handed it to his sister who placed itin the centre of a small clay tile.

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Hatred is the key

Ram Barley sat in silence with his back to them

as the unbearable pain continued to rage inside

his head.

Giselle leaned forward and swung a piece of

crystal tied to a cord rhythmically from side to

side in front of Ram until he closed his eyes and

she was able to open his mouth without pain.

Phinias fashioned a small cone from a piece of

rat skin, lit the mixture and handed it to Giselle.

She placed the cone over the smoke and pointed

it at the hollow and inflamed wisdom tooth deep

in Ram Barley's swollen mouth. She continued to

hold it there until the mixture had burnt itself out

before handing it to Phinias and nodding with

satisfaction.

She stood behind Ram and gently massaged

his neck until he opened his eyes twisted his head

around and gave her a look of sheer euphoria.‘'Ee needs to get that out of thee mouth,’ she

said.

He didn't understand and she gently touched

his swollen cheek.

Ram pulled his head back, coughed loudly andspat the puss and blood onto the dried mud.

‘'As betta,’ she said, smiling with satisfaction.

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Ram looked at her and slowly his face broke

into the widest grin. ‘Thank you ma'am… thank

you very much,’ he said.

Giselle looked around and made to pass him a

note. At first he hesitated but after realizing what

was happening acknowledged her with a nod, took

the note and slid it inside his jacket before

disappearing into the crowd.

‘I didn't ask 'is name,’ she said looking out

across the market.

‘It don't matter, we'll see 'im again,’ said

Phinias confidently.

They carefully packed their phials, powders

and potions, dismantled their stall loaded their

mule and left with the other traders.

The prison yard soon heaved with prisoners

playing football and other games in the bright

sunny afternoon.

The gates opened and the barking dogs raced

in followed closely by Captain Shortland while

staggering behind him tied to each other were the

exhausted prisoners.

There was absolute silence.

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Graham Sclater

The prisoners-of-war watched as the

recaptured prisoners were dragged ignominiously

into the depot.

Although clearly injured Miles Longman and

Marshall Cunningham looked pleased to be back

while lagging far behind were the dejected figures

of William Cole and Dylan Chipp.

‘No one escapes from me!’ screamed an

arrogant Captain Shortland. ‘Get these bastards

into the cachot , before I have 'em flogged. The

rest of you get back to your cells,’ he said pausing

briefly before raising his head proudly. He let out

a bloodcurdling scream that reverberated around

the depot. ‘Now!’

Dylan made a futile gesture as the four of them

were pushed and prodded with bayonets and rifle

butts but realising it was pointless gave in and

moved off towards the cachot .

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Hatred is the key

The Captain coughed loudly to attract

everyone's attention. He waited for total silence

before he ceremoniously pulled the eye patch

from his pocket and held his trophy high in the air.

‘I believe this belonged to a…’ he paused as his

audience gasped loudly. ‘Henry Sterling, no less,’

he boomed, ensuring his voice was heard by

everyone gathered in the yard. ‘…he's dead…

dead!’ he screamed proudly before he sniggered

and turned, throwing the eye patch into the air to

be ripped apart by the dogs before it reached the

thawing mud and ice.

The recaptured prisoners stood rooted to the

spot as the Agent's horse trotted towards his

office before he dismounted.

‘What about Joshua?’ shouted young Sylas.

The Agent turned slowly and smirked broadly

savouring the moment before he replied. ‘Dead!’he paused, ‘I already told yer… they're both

dead,’ he boasted.

Number Three Block was unusually quiet with an

air of despair. Ram Barley moved unnoticed

across the block and passed the note to JeremiahHatch who was swinging in his hammock with his

eyes closed and singing softly to himself.

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Graham Sclater

He could dream; sometimes.

Jeremiah struggled to read in the poor light

tilting the paper from side to side reading each

word and rereading it before sliding out of his

hammock. ‘He's not dead! Joshua made it!’ he

shouted and jumped excitedly around. ‘He made

it! He made it!’ he continued.

‘Thank God… I've been praying for him,’ said

Asha Adams as the block suddenly erupted.

Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt and his guests sat around the

huge dining table at Tor Royal. The main course

was almost finished and the wine flowed freely.Uneaten dishes of food and half finished plates

filled the table.

‘So Captain, have you now caught all the

escapees?’ asked Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt sipping at

his wine.

‘All except one of 'em…,’ said Captain

Shortland sipping at his wine. ‘I'm sure he'll turn

up in a day or so… begging us to let him in,’ he

lied.

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Hatred is the key

Priscilla could hold her tongue no longer and

spoke out. ‘Begging to go back inside? Did you

know that nearly ten thousand men are crammed

into a jail built for… f… f …,’ she stuttered angrily,

‘…for less than a few thousand, human beings?’

she said.

‘Come, come Priscilla,’ scolded her mother.

‘Those so called human beings?’ she paused and

looked towards her husband, ‘are our enemy and

they must be treated as such. What has come

over you, young lady?’ she scolded.

Priscilla retorted angrily. ‘This is insane!

Sadistic! Inhumane!’ she gathered her thoughts.

‘The wanton cruelty,’ said Priscilla. She paused

briefly for breath. ‘Captain, how can you treat

humans like animals?’ She shook with anger and

took a huge breath before blurting out

uncontrollably. ‘… cattle?’Her father interrupted her. ‘How would you

have them treated? Sitting here at our table?’ he

said laughing and looking around for agreement.

‘And, sharing Sir Thomas's fine wine?’

continued Captain Shortland There were loud guffaws of laughter from the

men.

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Graham Sclater

‘Before we know it they will want to move into

our homes,’ mocked Sir Thomas.

‘Who knows where it will end, eh, gentlemen?’

screeched the Captain.

‘You call yourself gentlemen! How can you sit

there and drink your wine, cognac and…,’ she

stopped to think pointing at the uneaten food on

the table. ‘Eat this food? Look at the waste.

Those men are starving up there,’ said Priscilla

choking with emotion.

‘Men!’ roared her father.

‘Animals! More like,’ said Thomas Irwin finally

feeling confident enough to join in.

‘Even when we allow them to wash their filthy

bodies, they choose not to do so. Disgusting

vermin,’ slurred the Captain before taking another

slug of wine. ‘They're alive with lice and

creepers.’‘That's enough, Priscilla. It's most unladylike,’

tutted her mother

Captain Shortland shook his head.

‘No, no, Dorien. Let her have her say,’ he said

drunkenly.

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Hatred is the key

‘That's as maybe, sir? But she is a lady and it is

not befitting for a lady to talk in such a manner,

sir,’ said Dorien Irwin.

‘Come, come, a toast for our host,’ said Squire

Irwin as he rose unsteadily from his seat and

raised his glass.

‘Sir Thomas,’ he slurred before swallowing

another glass of wine and falling back drunkenly

into his chair.

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Graham Sclater

Chapter seventeen

Squire Irwin and Thomas stood on the lawn

shooting at makeshift targets nailed to the nearby

trees while William Cole and Jeremiah Hatch, both

chained at the ankle reloaded their rifles.

‘Go and get me a drink will you, boy?’ asked

the Squire.

‘Yessir,’ replied William.

The guard released the manacles and William

Cole limped awkwardly towards the house.

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Hatred is the key

‘Don't you think that you're a little too

agreeable towards these men father? After all

they are our enemy,’ whispered Thomas Irwin.

Squire Irwin ignored his son. ‘It's your shot,

man!’ he bellowed.

William Cole limped into the house and knocked

gently on the closed sitting room door.‘Come in,’ shouted Dorien Irwin curtly.

William slowly opened the door and was taken

aback at the moorland animal heads and stuffed

birds that adorned every wall.

Dorien Irwin sat near the fire embroidering asilk handkerchief while Priscilla sat looking out of

the window.

‘Good afternoon, ma'am….’ He turned to

Priscilla, ‘miss, I'm sorry to trouble you. The

Squire has asked me to fetch him a cognac,’ said

William nervously.

Dorien barely looked up from her embroidery.

‘Help yourself,’ she said.

William didn't move and appeared reluctant to

do so.

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Graham Sclater

Priscilla smiled at him and pointed towards the

ornate decanter. ‘It's all right, I'll do it,’ she said as

she turned her wheel chair around. As she did so

the shock was clearly visible on William Cole's

face.

‘It's all right. I said I'd do it, didn't I?’ she

snapped.

As she wheeled herself across the room,

William's face suddenly changed.

‘You look surprised,’ said Priscilla.

‘Well… yes… er… no,’ stuttered William trying

hard to hide the shock. He shook his head slowly.

‘I had no idea,’ he said softly.

‘Does it make a difference?’ asked Priscilla.

She stopped in the centre of the room and

waited. ‘Be honest… I know it does. As soon as

any man sees me like this they can't bear to even

look me in the eye. They either take pity on me ornever call again,’ she said, her voice quivering

with sadness.

She pulled a silk embroidered handkerchief

from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. ‘Who wants

half a woman?’ she asked.William turned away.

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Hatred is the key

‘There you are…,’ she said as she turned her

head away. ‘You're doing it,’ she said sadly.

‘No… I'm surprised that's all,’ he said turning

away from her to avoid her eyes. ‘I really had no

idea,’ he said apologetically.

Priscilla poured the drinks and handed them to

William.

‘It was a riding accident. A fox spooked my

horse,’ she said as she remembered the moment.

‘I broke my back,’ she said as tears filled her dark

green eyes.

‘But… I saw you riding,’ said William clearly

confused.

‘Of course,’ she said proudly. ‘I'm not a total

invalid. I can do most things but I quickly become

weary. Father insists that I sit in this thing,’ she

said as she brought her hands down hard on the

wooden wheels. ‘He thinks he can control me likeeveryone else,’ she said brusquely before turning

and wheeling herself back to the window. ‘That's

enough about me,’ she said.

She looked out across the moor and suddenly

turned to him. ‘Is it true about Thomas? Did hereally kill someone?’ she asked.

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Graham Sclater

Her mother now looked up from her

needlework. ‘Priscilla, stop this nonsense!’ she

scolded.

William Cole nodded slowly, his face revealing

the painful memory. ‘Yes, miss.’ He turned to

Dorien Irwin and lowered his head. ‘Ma'am… He

shot my Captain…’ he stopped, and remembered

vividly that fateful morning. He coughed gently

and continued in a sombre voice. ‘…Captain

Coombes in cold blood.’ He began to shake with

rage. ‘He didn't die immediately,’ he said shaking

his head wildly. ‘It took best part of a week for

him to die….’ He hesitated. ‘My Captain… chained

like a common slave,’ he said as he turned and

looked out of the window at Thomas and the

Squire. ‘I'm sorry, miss, ma'am, your brother has

a lot to answer for,’ he said before turning to

Priscilla and looking down at her wheelchair. ‘Andyou, well… it really doesn't make any difference to

me,’ he said thoughtfully.

William walked across to her, placed the tray of

drinks on her lap, smiled and pushed her towards

the door, turning briefly to Dorien Irwin. ‘Ma'am,’he said nodding slowly.

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Hatred is the key

William pushed Priscilla into the garden and

passed the Squire and Thomas their drinks. They

ignored Priscilla; it was as though she wasn't

there.

They finished their drinks and returned to their

shooting.

‘Come on! Quicker!’ shouted an excited Squire

Irwin.

William loaded two rifles while Jeremiah

struggled to load the first.

Squire Irwin watched and realising that William

was experienced he walked across to him. ‘Can

you shoot, boy?’ he asked William tapping at the

gun.

‘I reckon I can, sir,’ he replied

The Squire smiled widely. ‘Show me,’ he asked

as he stepped back.

William took his gun, aimed at a pigeon as itflew out of the copse and fired. As the pigeon fell

into the woods Priscilla smiled proudly.

‘Excellent shot. What was the distance of that,

man?’ asked the Squire.

‘A hundred yards or thereabouts, sir’ repliedWilliam.

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Graham Sclater

‘Very impressive,’ he nodded, ‘yes, very,’ he

said stroking his beard. ‘I'll have cook prepare

that one for supper,’ said the Squire as his face lit

up and he whistled excitedly for his dogs to collect

the kill.

Thomas Irwin looked away, cursed and kicked

angrily at the lawn.

The Chief Revenue Officer accompanied by two

additional Revenue men and three Marines rode

up the long sweeping drive towards Captain

Sleep's residence. They dismounted and passed

their horses to one of the Marines and walkedtowards the imposing front doors.

The first Chief Revenue Officer knocked loudly

on the door.

The doors slowly opened. ‘May I help you,

gentlemen?’ asked the servant, taken aback by

the visitors.

‘We wish to address, Captain Sleep,’ he asked

authoritatively.

‘Shall I state you business, gentlemen? He

asked.

‘That won't be necessary,’ said the second

Revenue man.

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Hatred is the key

The servant stepped aside. ‘Gentlemen,

please come in,’ he said.

The servant walked through the impressive

hall, followed by the Chief Revenue Officer and his

men, knocked and entered the drawing room.

A large globe took pride of place in a room

darkened by the carved hardwood furniture, dark

oak timber floors and panelled walls much of

which was covered with large paintings of ships

and sea battles.

Captain Sleep sat in his large leather armchair

reading and holding a glass of cognac while a long

pipe smoked in the ash tray.

‘You have callers, sir,’ said the servant.

The Captain looked up and smiled, placed the

glass and book on the table and stood to greet

them.

‘Captain Jonas Sleep?’ asked the Revenue man.‘Yes, of course I am, sir,’ replied Captain Sleep

The Chief Revenue Officer glanced suspiciously

at the glass and nodded knowingly to his

colleague.

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Graham Sclater

‘Captain Sleep, we have it on good authority

that you are involved in defrauding His Majesty's

Government.’ He paused and licked his lips.

‘Smuggling no less,’ he said with a stern face.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ replied the Captain

sternly.

The Revenue men looked at each other. ‘Sir,

we would like to search your premises,’ said one

of them.

The Captain was clearly angry. ‘Now, just a

moment,’ he said looking around. ‘On whose

advice are you here?’ he asked.

The Chief Revenue Officer stiffened. ‘I'm afraid

I can't divulge that, Captain,’ he said.

Captain Sleep reached down, picked up his

glass and emptied it with a large gulp. ‘Please be

my guest,’ he said wiping his lips with a white

handkerchief. The two Revenue men left the room with one of

the Marines while the third stood nervously at the

door.

Captain Sleep refilled and lit his pipe and

returned to his book as though nothing hadhappened.

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Hatred is the key

In less than an hour the Revenue men re-

entered the room accompanied by a Marine

carrying a cask.

‘Well Captain Sleep, sir.’ The man turned and

pointed at the cask before returning to face the

Captain. ‘This cask contains cognac and does not

carry the Revenue stamp,’ said the Chief Revenue

Officer sternly.

Captain Sleep looked confused. ‘What?’ He

turned to look at each his accusers before

speaking. ‘Damn you man, where did you find

that?’ he raged.

‘In your stable, sir,’ replied the second

Revenue man in a restrained voice.

‘You will need to accompany us to Plymouth,

sir,’ said the Chief Revenue Officer.

Captain Sleep looked at them transfixed as his

face slowly drained of all colour. The second Revenue man coughed nervously

before speaking. ‘Sir, you will need to accompany

us, now,’ he said firmly.

The Captain slowly rose from his chair. ‘This is

preposterous,’ he said as he looked around theroom. ‘I've never heard anything so ridiculous in

all my life.’

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Graham Sclater

The servants acknowledged Captain Sleep in

silence.

The Captain spoke clearly to his stunned

servants as he was escorted past them. ‘Tell Mrs

Sleep, I will return before nightfall,’ he said

confidently.

The third Revenue man stopped and spoke to

the servants. ‘It is unlikely that the Captain will be

back. We have indisputable success in matters of

this nature… smuggling,’ he said with a wide grin

as he straightened his jacket. ‘Generally… with

hanging,’ he said with a shrug. He shook his head

and smiled at the servants, straightened his hat

and pulled the front doors closed behind him.

The entourage, led by the Chief Revenue

Officer followed by Captain Sleep and flanked by

the Marines and Revenue men, left the Captain's

estate and made its way in silence across themoor towards Plymouth.

As they neared Princetown, Thomas Irwin and

Harold Thomson approached them, touched their

hats, smiled broadly, kicked at their horses and

raced on flaying their mounts unnecessarily.

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Hatred is the key

Captain Sleep turned his head and followed

them with his knowing eyes before gazing towards

Plymouth, his uncertain future and what lay

ahead.

Mara walked through the ill lit infirmary

overflowing with sickly prisoners, her footsteps

muffled by the incessant coughing and moaning.

Doctor MacGrath who was tending to a dying

patient briefly looked up as she entered.

‘Hello again, Mara, you're getting to be a

regular these days,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should

ask your father if you can help me?’ he asked

smiling at her.

She looked across to him and blushed. ‘I

already have,’ she said softly.

‘I wonder why?’ he asked with a knowing smile.

Mara approached Peter Beck's bed. ‘Hello

Peter,’ she said.

‘Should you be here?’ asked Peter trying to

focus his eyes on the blurred outline.

‘Don't worry about me,’ she said firmly. ‘How

are you?’

Doctor MacGrath shouted across to her. ‘He's

doing very well, Mara.’

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Hatred is the key

‘How are you?’ she replied straightening her

dress and touching her hair nervously. ‘Benjamin,’

blushed Henrietta.

Alex giggled mischievously.

‘I've been better,’ he replied. ‘How did you

know my name?’ he asked with a look of surprise.

‘Yer friend told us,’ she replied with a wide

smile

Henrietta carefully chose some bread and a

cake, wrapped them in a white cloth and placed

them in his hands.

‘This might help a little,’ she said.

‘Thanks,’ he replied with an appreciative smile.

‘Will I see you again, sir?’ she asked.

‘I'm not going anywhere… well not for a while,’

he said, looking down at the food. ‘I'll enjoy this,

and yes… it will help.’

Mara made her way across the crowded squareto Phinias and Giselle's stall, spoke briefly to

Giselle, and bought some sphagnum moss, a wrap

of white powder and a small bottle of coloured

liquid.

Mara re-entered the infirmary and walkedunnoticed past Doctor MacGrath who was

attending to yet another dieing prisoner.

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Graham Sclater

She walked across to Peter and lifted his head

gently. ‘Drink this, it will help you,’ she said.

She poured a few drops of the coloured liquid

between Peter's dry lips and carefully cleaned the

leg wound before tapping the white powder onto it

and binding the sphagnum moss tightly around it.

As Peter lost consciousness Mara knelt and

kissed him on the cheek.

‘Sleep well,’ whispered Mara.

Benjamin Beck passed her on the way out,

turned his head the other away and pushed past

her.

Benjamin shook his brother. ‘What's she doing

here?’ he gasped.

‘Who? What?’ asked a dazed Peter.

‘She's the Agent's daughter. If he finds out,’ he

paused and looked nervously around. ‘Well…, I

don't dare think what he'll do to you.’He looked down at his brother's leg. ‘How does

it feel?’ he asked.

‘Agony, absolute agony,’ he said. ‘Do you think

they'll amputate?’ he asked.

‘I don't think so,’ lied his brother.Peter smiled at him and fell back to sleep.

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Hatred is the key

Benjamin laid half the food he had been given

by Henrietta on Peter's bed and left.

Joshua Amos lay on a makeshift bed which had

been made up against the wall nearest to the fire.

‘How do 'e feel today?’ asked Giselle.

‘A little better thank you,’ replied Joshua Amos.

‘'E can stay 'ere as long as 'e wants. No onecomes 'ere. But when they needs us they changes

they're minds quick enough then,’ she retorted.

‘You be in the best place. From what I 'ear all's

not well up at that prison. They're dieing like

there's a plague,’ she said thoughtfully. Joshua looked into the fire and thought about

his fellow prisoners freezing back in the depot.

‘Them knows you's 'ere and you be all right,’

said Phinias.

He looked at Phinias and tried desperately to

get out of the bed.

‘What do you mean…? You've told Shortland

I'm here?’ he grunted, his face ashen with fear.

Giselle smiled and for the first time Joshua saw

her real beauty.

‘Us 'ould never do that,’ said Phinias taken

aback at the very suggestion.

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Graham Sclater

‘No, us 'ave told yer friends. They know you'm

safe with us,’ said Giselle proudly.

The Revenue man, hidden beneath the outcrop of

trees gnarled and distorted by the fierce onshore

winds, stood high on the cliff top and watched as

the small craft made its way out to sea. He waited

for Squire Irwin and the cart driven by Harold Thomson to make its way up the beach and onto

the cliff track before he climbed onto his horse

and, unnoticed, rode back towards Plymouth.

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Hatred is the key

Chapter eighteen

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Graham Sclater

Rueben Beasly sat at the Agent's desk and two

immaculate armed American Marines stood

motionless beside him while Charles Blasden and

Marshall Cunningham, as chosen representatives

of the American prisoners-of-war, looked on.

Captain Shortland stood with his back to

everyone and blew huge clouds of cigar smoke

into the air as he looked out of the window.

‘Captain, may I urge you on behalf of the

American Government to show a little more…

dare I say understanding towards my fellow

countrymen,’ said Rueben Beasly.

Captain Shortland turned and made no attempt

to hide his anger.

‘If your so called Government were more co-

operative, then they would no longer be here,’ he

retorted.

‘Please understand Captain, we are doing allwe can to speed their release… but nevertheless

it might be a few more weeks before we can do

so.’ He turned and addressed the prisoners. ‘And

then you will all be on your way home,’ said

Rueben Beasly with a forced smile.

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Hatred is the key

He looked across at the Captain and waited for

a reaction. When there was none he continued.

‘Mind you, as far as you British are concerned it

was just in time,’ he grunted. ‘You took a real

thrashing at New Orleans in January,’ he said

laughing loudly his huge stomach rising and

falling grotesquely.

‘But the war was already over,’ replied the

confused Agent

‘That's as maybe but no one knew it,’ replied

Rueben Beasly, with a hint of pride in his voice.

Captain Shortland frowned at him before

lighting another cigar.

Marshall Cunningham stiffened and unable to

hold back any longer spoke out.

‘Who cares about the past, Mister Beasly, sir?

You're not doing much to help us. Our men are

dying quicker than they ever did at sea,’ heshouted.

Rueben Beasly faked a laugh. ‘Gentlemen,

when I return to London I assure you I will do all I

can to help your predicament.’

‘Make it soon, Mister Beasly… make it soon,’said a dejected Charles Blasden wiping at his

watery eyes.

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Graham Sclater

Mara knelt beside Peter's bed and for the first

time was able to smile. ‘You look much bettertoday,’ she said excitedly. ‘I've arranged to take

you out onto the moor,’ she said.

‘How is that possible?’ asked a confused Peter

Beck

‘You're in no fit state to run away are you,

man?’ said Doctor MacGrath.

‘No, I don't believe I am,’ replied Peter. ‘Thank

you, Doctor.’ He forced a pained smile and turned

to Mara. ‘Mara, thank you,’ he whispered and fell

back exhausted.

Mara waited for a sunny day and that morning

two guards carried Peter from the infirmary to the

outer gate and helped him onto the cart. As he

attempted to stand unaided, he stumbled but with

the help of one of the guards he and Mara were

finally ready to leave.

She drove the cart the short distance to

Princetown through the square and down a narrow

track between the Plume of Feathers and a

cottage.

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Hatred is the key

They travelled for almost a mile and passed the

imposing Tor Royal on their left and continued in

silence until they reached the open moorland.

Peter could see little more than shadows but

he could hear the running water as it gushed over

the large rocks and boulders.

‘This is very kind of you, Mara,’ he said taking

in the bracing moorland air.

‘I owe it to you, Peter. You saved my life,’ she

said.

‘You don't have to do this,’ he said reluctantly.

Mara sat in silence for a few minutes before

she suddenly blurted out. ‘You know you'll always

have a limp, Peter,’ she said sadly.

Peter smiled and slowly shook his head. ‘I

never ever thought I'd walk again,’ he sighed

turning to face her. ‘So it really won't be a

problem. Most of the cow hands back home havelimps or some damage to their legs and arms,’ he

reassured her.

Mara smiled a relieved smile and took in the air

before speaking.

‘What's America really like?’ she askedinquisitively.

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‘It's beautiful,’ he reflected. ‘Buffalos,

thousands of 'em roam the plains. America is like

nowhere else on earth,’ he said pulling her closer

to him. ‘If we ever get to leave this place would

you come back with me and Benjamin?’ he asked.

‘Me…? America?’ shrieked a shocked Mara.

Her smiling face suddenly changed. ‘I can't,’

she said softly.

‘Why?’ asked Peter taken aback.

‘What about my father? I can't just leave him,’

she said thoughtfully.

‘Don't you ever want a life of your own?’ he

asked brusquely.

‘Well of course I do but I can’t just leave him

here. Surely, you of all people would understand

it?’ she replied harshly.

‘It wasn't through choice that Benjamin and I

found ourselves on that ship,’ he retorted. ‘We didit for our country. Mara, you must understand

that?’

‘I'm sorry, Peter. Of course I understand but I

do have a choice and it's one I have already

made. My father brought me up,’ she reflected.‘He sacrificed his naval career for me and now you

expect me to leave him after all he's done?’

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‘Done, what has he done?’ he asked angrily.

She turned to face him. ‘The sea he loves, for

me,’ she replied. ‘Spending these last years in this

God forsaken place so far from the sea, that's

what he's done.’ She climbed down from the cart

and walked along the stream.

Peter felt strangely defenseless, but free. He

tilted his head to one side and then the other as

he listened to the skylarks as they sang high

above him before diving headlong into the

heather and their invisible nests.

Mara dragged her hands through the gravel

before carefully choosing a pebble and drying it in

her shawl.

Peter heard her footsteps on the gravel as she

walked back to the carriage and climbed in. She

pulled his arms around her, stroked his hair and

kissed him on the lips for the first time.‘I'm sorry, Peter. I do understand your feelings

but surely you must understand mine?’

‘Of course I do,’ he replied softly.

‘This is a very special moment,’ he said as he

pulled her close to him and guided their faces inthe direction of the sun. ‘Why spoil it now?’ he

said.

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She nodded her agreement but he couldn't see

it.

She squeezed his hand firmly. ‘I'm sorry, Peter.

I really am,’ she said kissing him softly on the

cheek.

He reached out and gently followed the

contour of her lips with his index finger before

speaking. ‘How did you get a name like, Mara?’

he asked.

‘My father gave it to me. Mara is the Gaelic

word for the sea,’ she said. ‘Very apt, don't you

think since my father is a sea captain?’

‘It is very unusual… and beautiful,’ he sighed

as he stroked her long dark hair.

‘Peter, I have something for you,’ she said as

she took his hand and placed the smooth oval

pebble in his palm.

He rubbed it between his fingers before placingit in his pocket. ‘It's beautiful; I'll keep it forever,’

he said, ‘my own piece of England.’

‘I'm so glad you like it,’ she said.

Mara smiled and looked out across the moor. ‘It

looks like another cold night,’ she said pulling theblanket around Peter and her shawl around her

shoulders.

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‘We should be getting you back to the

infirmary, you must be exhausted,’ she said.

‘I am a little,’ he replied. ‘Thank you,’ he said

softly.

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Chapter nineteen

Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt entertained Captain

Shortland, Squire and Thomas Irwin and Doctor

MacGrath in his beautifully furnished library

overlooking the open moor at the rear of Tor

Royal. The air was thick with cigar smoke and a

number of wine bottles stood empty on the table.

Unable to hold back any longer, Doctor

MacGrath spoke out. ‘You've got to do something

to get them out of there. I've managed to save

some by immunization… but not enough,’ he said.

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‘That's as maybe but who's going to pay to

send them back?’ replied Captain Shortland

ignoring the Doctor's concerns.

‘We don't have the money and why should we

pay for them, they declared war on us,’ said Sir

Thomas.

‘Can't Beasly do anything to help?’ asked the

Doctor.

Captain Shortland stood and tapped his cigar

ash into the blazing fire. ‘He's about as much help

as… well,’ he stopped to think. ‘I can't believe he's

an American… and on their side,’ he said, shaking

is head in utter disbelief.

Sir Thomas shifted in his favourite chair near

the fire. ‘They'll just have to stay there until that

dreadful man Beasly comes up with the money,’

he said

‘Here… here…,’ agreed Thomas Irwin. ‘As faras I'm concerned they can stay there and rot,’ he

said with a wide self congratulatory grin.

‘Um… but for how long?’ questioned the

Doctor.

‘As long as it takes, Doctor,’ replied Thomasbrusquely.

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‘But it might take forever,’ said the Doctor his

concerns clearly apparent.

‘So what!’ scoffed Squire Irwin.

Doctor MacGrath glared across at him. ‘They've

suffered enough and this ghastly war's over.’ He

stood to reinforce his anger and brought his

clenched fists down onto the table. ‘It's over,

man! We've got no right to keep them locked up

like….’ He looked around the room and up at the

stuffed trophies that adorned the wall above the

wide fireplace. ‘Like animals,’ he shouted unable

to hide his frustration.

The Squire nodded, looked across to his son

Thomas and smirked. ‘I've always thought the

Doctor had a soft spot for the Yankees, eh

Thomas?’ he said.

There was as unexpected silence.

‘Tell me, Captain,’ asked Sir Thomas as hesignalled to his servant who immediately rushed

around the room pouring drinks. ‘What do you

think we should do with them? If we let them out

surely they'll only die on the moor?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, perhaps even rape or murder ourwomen,’ scoffed Squire Irwin into his cognac.

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Hatred is the key

Sir Thomas straightened his waistcoat.

‘Exactly! That's why I'm thinking of arranging

something… I thought that perhaps… a shooting

competition to take their minds off the situation.

The Prince of Wales will of course endorse it,’ he

said proudly.

Doctor MacGrath scowled.

‘Shooting competition? What possible use is

that?’

‘Well… I think that it's a splendid idea?’ said

Squire Irwin as he took a huge drag on his cigar.

‘We'll win of course,’ he bragged.

Captain Shortland nodded in agreement.

‘That Frenchie over at Tavistock, Monsieur

Boulan, I'm sure he'll be only too pleased to

represent his country,’ he said laughing loudly.

‘That's another poor sod. Is he still here in

England?’ asked the Doctor. Thomas Irwin ignored him and spoke out.

‘Monsieur Boulan? I saw him only last week, I'm

sure he would be only too pleased to… to… extol

the virtues of France,’ he said with a loud mocking

laugh.

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Hatred is the key

‘There's only one choice as far as I'm

concerned,’ he paused and the prisoners stood

open mouthed waiting for him to complete the

sentence. ‘And that's William… William Cole,’ said

Peter Beck.

The prisoners nodded in agreement.

‘He shot Captain Sleep. Pity he didn't kill 'im,’

mumbled Dylan Chipp.

He coughed, faked a smiled and looked around.

‘Well, I think that all of you will want to put a

wager on this one,’ he said rubbing his hands

wildly.

The daily market had finished and the market

traders and merchants had already left. Any

American prisoner able to stand waited in the

yard and the militia and guards were grouped

together laughing and already celebrating the

anticipated outcome in what was an almost party

atmosphere.

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While Sergeant Greaves organized the

makeshift thirty inch target at one end of the

yard, William Cole, Monsieur Richard Boulan, and

Henry James, the chosen crack shot from the

prison guards, nervously prepared their rifles fifty

yards from it.

Captain Shortland sat in a large chair outside of

his office, accompanied by an uninterested Mara.

He stood briefly and explained the rules. ‘You

will all take three shots at the target and whoever

hits the inner target the greatest number of times

will be deemed to be the winner. We have already

drawn lots, and you will shoot in this order.

Monsieur Boulan, Henry James and William Cole,’

he said.

He lit a cigar and spoke through the thick

smoke. ‘Good luck gentlemen and don't forget,

you are representing your respective countries,’he said.

He looked across at Henry James and smiled to

him before sitting down.

Marshall Cunningham collected the last of the

bets and handed the money to Dylan Chipp.

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Hatred is the key

‘No more bets, that's it. No more bets,’ shouted

a smiling and for once genuinely happy Dylan

Chipp.

Sergeant Greaves signalled to the competitors

and moved well away from the target while his

assistant marked the firing position on the yard.

Richard Boulan held his hand high, threw a

handful of straw into the air and watched it fall to

the ground, nodded knowingly and adjusted his

sights. He tucked the rifle in tight to his chin and

fired. His first shot hit the inner area of the target.

Clearly pleased with his effort, he grinned widely.

The prisoners jeered at him as he stepped back

to reload.

Henry James took up his position, concentrated

and aimed carefully at the target.

‘Come on… show us what you can do,’ shouted

a voice deep in the crowd.Henry James turned in the direction of the

heckler grimaced and retook aim. His first shot

also hit the inner circle of the target.

‘That's not much better,’ jeered the

anonymous prisoner.‘Is that the best you can do?’ shouted another.

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‘Yeah,’ jeered the prisoners loudly and waving

their arms around.

William Cole took his shot and hit the inner

circle.

The American prisoners all sighed with relief.

Benjamin whispered in Peter's ear. ‘We're all

equal.’

Peter sighed heavily.

Richard Boulan stepped up to the mark and

took his second shot and hit the outer circle.

The Americans jeered wildly and whistled at

him.

Monsieur Boulan was clearly affected by the

reaction although he tried to hide it by waving his

arms in the air mocking victory before checking

and reloading his rifle.

Henry James stepped up, took aim and fired.

He also hit the outer circle.William Cole took aim and hit the outer circle

and ignoring the misplaced congratulatory shouts

turned to concentrate on preparing his rifle for his

last and final shot.

Richard Boulan missed the target with his thirdand last shot. ‘Merde!’ he cursed and threw his

rifle to the ground as the Americans jeered at him.

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Hatred is the key

The guards and militia, sensing victory for their

contestant, suddenly became very excited and

cheered loudly as Henry James took aim and fired.

He shook his head in utter disgust as Sergeant

Greaves checked the position on his shot.

‘Outer ring,’ shouted the Sergeant.

The prisoners jeered at him as he walked off in

disgust not wanting to have his poor effort

broadcast.

Benjamin leaned and whispered to Peter.

‘William could win this, if he only hits the inner

circle,’ he said, his excitement rising.

There was total silence as William, nervously

checked his rifle, aimed but then lowered it and

checked it again.

‘Come on William!’ shouted a voice from the

crowd.

‘Yeah! Come on,’ they shouted impatiently.‘Show the British bastards what you're made

of,’ shouted another.

He raised his rifle, fired and hit the centre of

the target.

There was absolute pandemonium.‘We won! We won!’ they shouted ecstatically.

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Sergeant Greaves walked forward and

rechecked the target. He looked back at Captain

Shortland and reluctantly nodded.

There was absolute euphoria and the noise was

deafening.

‘Well done,’ shouted Captain Shortland

begrudgingly.

The prisoners rushed towards William and

swamped him.

Captain Shortland drew heavily on his cigar.

Although he wanted to continue, his attempts to

speak were completely futile as he was drowned

out by the Americans.

Henry James could not hide his anger, shaking

his head in despair and embarrassment.

‘All right… that's enough. Get back to your

cells now,’ boomed Sergeant Greaves fingering

his whip.‘Good shootin' Will. You showed 'em good and

proper,’ shouted Asha Adams

The prisoners whistled, sang and talked

excitedly about the afternoon while other groups

played keno, a card game originating in China.‘That was some shootin' there, boy,’ said

Jeremiah Hatch.

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‘What with William and New Orleans we got

'em beat all 'round,’ congratulated Asha Adams.

‘Not before time,’ said Marshall Cunningham.

Dylan Chipp smiled to himself as he paid out on

the winning bets. He couldn't lose.

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Graham Sclater

Chapter twenty

Captain Shortland paced his office and plugged

angrily at his pipe, while Doctor MacGrath sat

silently at his desk.

‘The bastard! Beasly's got a lot to answer

for….’ He failed to finish the sentence instead he

opened the door. ‘Sergeant!’ boomed Captain

Shortland.

Sergeant Greaves rushed into the Agent's

office.

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Hatred is the key

Before he could speak Captain Shortland

snapped at him. ‘Go and get Mister Etherington,’

ordered the Captain.

‘Yessir!’ replied the Sergeant,

The Sergeant returned a few minutes later with

a flustered Marshall Etherington.

‘We've got a problem, Mister Etherington,’ he

said sternly. Marshall Etherington tried to

straighten his twisted misshapen frame as the

Agent waved the letter in front of him.

‘Your, Mister Beasly has stopped everyone's

allowance,’ continued Captain Shortland as

passed the letter to Doctor MacGrath.

‘What's this all about, Captain Shortland, sir?’

asked Ralph Etherington.

‘You and your fellow Yankees will no longer get

any money from your beloved America. Mister

Beasly has advised us that since the war is overhe no longer has the authority to continue to pay

any allowances,’ explained the Agent.

‘He's done what?’ exclaimed Marshall.

Sergeant Greaves stepped forward. ‘You 'eard

the Captain,’ he said firmly.

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Ralph looked at Captain Shortland his face

clearly concerned and worried. ‘I'll tell them, sir.

But they won't like it,’ he said.

‘I don't see that they have any choice in the

matter… do you?’ asked the Agent.

‘No, sir,’ replied the prisoner. ‘I don't.’

The bad news travelled fast and in less than anhour the yard was packed with angry prisoners-of-

war.

A small group carried a full sized effigy of

Rueben Beasly across the yard and proceeded to

put him on trial.‘Beasly! Beasly! Beasly!’ chanted the angry

prisoners as they continued to spill out into the

yard.

His effigy pleaded guilty to neglect and failing

to repatriate the prisoners-or-war following the

signing of the Treaty of Ghent and was paraded

around the prison in front of an every growing

crowd of baying prisoners. As the tempers flared,

his effigy was hung from a granite lintel and

stoned by the prisoners with anything they could

lay their hands on before being set on fire to

riotous applause and jeers.

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Hatred is the key

A group of Rough Alleys suddenly appeared

from depths of the crowd and scrambled up the

fence driving the sentries from their posts.

Pandemonium ensued as the remaining

prisoners followed them and stood at the foot of

the fence and tried to break it down.

Some of the inexperienced militiamen panicked

and fired randomly into the air and as the alarm

bells rang, they were immediately joined by

reinforcements from the guardhouse while others

soon arrived from Princetown.

Sergeant Greaves cracked his whip like a man

possessed until another group of militiamen with

their bayonets fixed, anxiously coerced the

prisoners back towards the prison blocks.

Sergeant Greaves and the militiamen forced

the prisoners into Number Three Block and

slammed the door with a heavy thud.‘Captain Shortland has stopped all yer rations,’

shouted Sergeant Greaves cockily.

The prisoners jeered angrily.

‘Keep it down,’ shouted the largest of the

militiamen.‘And, you're confined to your block for twenty

four hours!’ shouted Sergeant Greaves.

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The prisoners crowed loudly and as an act of

defiance rattled and scraped their metal cups and

dishes against the granite walls.

As darkness fell and the temperature once

again dropped below freezing in the spring night,

the moans and groans grew to an almost

unbearable level.

‘I'm starvin',’ moaned Sylas.

‘We're all starvin',’ shouted Dylan Chipp.

‘Shut up and get to sleep, we'll be out in the

morning!’ shouted Asha Adams.

Mara helped Peter to climb out of the cart and he

used a makeshift walking stick to steady himself

as she led him along the bank of the Blackbrook

River. Thomas Irwin appeared from nowhere,

jumped across the sheep leap and swept up

beside them.

‘Hello, Mara,’ he said forcing a smile.She chose to ignore him and they continued to

walk.

Thomas followed closely and took his anger out

on his horse by whipping him viciously.

‘I don't understand you, Mara,’ said Thomasfaking yet another smile.

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Hatred is the key

He trotted around in front of them, his horse

visibly nervous.

‘Why don't you spend your time with someone

who can appreciate your beauty?’ said Thomas

looking across at Peter.

Mara and Peter continued to walk but Peter

slipped and fell awkwardly cutting his hands on

the jagged granite rocks as he fell awkwardly onto

the gravel path.

Mara helped him to stand and carefully

removed the gravel from the deep cuts in his

bleeding hands.

‘There…, see what I mean?’ jibed Thomas.

‘Peter, are you all right?’ asked Mara.

Peter stood unsteadily trying to retain his

balance and dignity.

‘Yeah, I'm fine,’ he said quietly.

He tightened his grip on the walking stick ashis frustration and anger grew at his inability to

protect himself.

Thomas dug his heels hard into the horses

flank and continued to flay it unnecessarily with

his whip.

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Peter sensed the horse's fear and unnoticed by

Thomas or Mara, contorted his mouth and let out

a high pitched whistle.

The horse reared and Thomas was thrown from

his mount and fell heavily onto the ground.

Mara shook her head at Thomas who lay

moaning amongst the gorse.

She shrugged her shoulders and turned to

Peter. ‘Come on, Peter,’ she said, as she

guided him towards the cart.

‘Damn you, Yankee,’ seethed Thomas, as he

rose gracelessly to his feet and looked out across

the moorland for his mount.

The depot market square was crowded.

Thomas Irwin followed Mara at a distance and

watched her every move.

She walked across to Peter and Marshall. She

grasped Peter's wrist and pushed a small parcel of

food into his hand. He smiled and tucked it inside

his shirt.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

On the other side of the yard the outgoing

militiamen excitedly packed their equipment and

prepared to leave.

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Hatred is the key

‘I shan't be sorry to get away from this place,’

said a gaunt militiaman.

‘Nor me,’ answered another. ‘The Somerset

boys are welcome to it. Let's get as far away from

'ere as possible. The sooner the better,’ he said.

The outgoing militia walked towards the gate

and passed the rabble of the relief that was the

Somerset militia. They tried to march in line but it

wasn't possible.

‘Good luck to ya. You'll need it,’ shouted the

gaunt militiaman

The outgoing militia marched out of the gate,

whistling and much relieved.

The Somerset militia tried to take in their new

surroundings but were overawed by the squalor

and filth around them.

‘Just look at this place. I reckon we're the

prisoners. Not the bloody Yankees,’ shouted oneof them as the skies darkened and it started to

rain heavily.

Sergeant Greaves stood proud and upright

outside the Agent's office.

‘Get to your quarters… and I want you all back'ere in ten minutes. Look sharp now!’ he boomed

as he fingered his whip.

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The militiamen broke ranks and ran blindly in

the direction of the guard house.

Asha Adams ran from the yard and into Number

Three Block. ‘They've changed the militia. You

should see 'em, a rabble to a man. Maybe it's a

good time to get out of here,’ he shouted

excitedly.No one listened to him.

Captain Shortland sat at his desk and alternated

between drinking coffee and an almost empty

whiskey bottle.

Doctor MacGrath sat opposite him drinking

only coffee.

‘Have you seen what they've sent me this

time? Useless, no hopers, most of 'em have never

used a gun in their life,’ moaned Captain

Shortland shaking his head. ‘Um… I should be at

sea doing what I do best. I'm not an agent, I'm a

seaman. It's all I know,’ he cursed.

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Hatred is the key

He sipped at his coffee then his whiskey and lit

another cigar. ‘When I shipped the convicts to

New South Wales under Captain Phillips I never

thought that I'd be doing anything like this. Look

at this place, they're dying around us,’ he said.

Doctor MacGrath looked up and spoke slowly. ‘I

know,’ he said with a look of hopelessness. ‘We've

already lost more than fifteen hundred prisoners

in this rotten place? But until this is over there's

little we can do to change it.’ He stood and looked

out into the yard before he continued. ‘Absolutely

nothing,’ he said. ‘…eighteen months in here

seems like an eternity. How William Dykar stood

it for so long I'll never know?’ he sighed.

Before he could finish there was a loud knock

at the door.

‘Come in,’ shouted the Captain.

Thomas Irwin entered flanked by SergeantGreaves and a guard.

Finding it hard to catch a breath Thomas

spewed forth. ‘I saw him steal it… you need to

put a stop to it or who knows what will happen out

there,’ he said pointing towards the yard.Mara walked into the office and stood next to

Doctor MacGrath.

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Thomas Irwin glanced across to Mara and

continued.

‘Captain, I saw a prisoner stealing food,’ he

said.

Captain Shortland rose unsteadily from his

seat. ‘What? Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Captain Shortland, sir,’ he took a deep breath.

‘I saw him with my own eyes,’ he said excitedly.

‘Sergeant, whoever it is, arrest him and throw

him in the cachot and,’ he looked at the empty

whiskey bottle on his desk and turned angrily. ‘No

rations for three days,’ he boomed drunkenly.

Mara moved forward and made to speak.

‘But…,’ she gulped.

They all turned their attention to her.

Mara swallowed hard, looked across at Thomas

and slowly shook her head. ‘Um… nothing,’ she

murmured.Thomas Irwin smirked and staring hard at

Mara spoke out. ‘Sergeant let me show you the

vile criminal,’ he said, before turning towards the

still open door. ‘Come!’

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Hatred is the key

Thomas Irwin led the Sergeant and a group of

guards out into the market square and pushed his

way through the crowd. Without saying a word he

pointed forcefully at Peter Beck his finger shaking

with a perverse satisfaction and the widest

imaginable grin across his smug face.

Three guards grabbed a stunned Peter who

flayed out blindly in a pathetic attempt to ward off

his unknown aggressors.

‘Get off him,’ screamed Benjamin as raced

headlong across to his brother pushing his fellow

prisoners aside. The guards were ready for him,

and hit out violently with their rifles knocking

Peter and Benjamin to the ground.

Thomas Irwin stood back and crossed his arms,

posed arrogantly and watched as the guards

dragged Peter from the mud and off towards the

cachot .

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Graham Sclater

Benjamin picked himself up and glared hard at

Thomas. ‘You bastard,’ he seethed. He took a

pace forward but three more guards were already

walking towards him. ‘You will pay!’ He glared at

him. ‘Just wait and see.’ He snarled as he wiped

the blood from his nose and mouth with his sleeve

before reluctantly turning away and kicking

angrily at the mud and gravel.

The guards opened the heavy metal clad

cachot door and threw Peter Beck inside.

He fell heavily and remained on the floor in the

darkness. ‘Help me! Anybody… please help me!’

he cried.

From the darkness someone spoke out. ‘You're

wasting your time. Save your breath. You won't

get out 'til they say so. You should know that by

now,’ said the voice.

Benjamin sat on the floor of Number Three Block

and struggled to eat his meal.

‘He must be starvin' in there,’ he cursed.

‘He can take it,’ said Ram Barley

‘I hope you're right,’ replied Benjamin.

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296



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Chapter twenty one

Joshua Amos watched Phinias and Giselle as they

sat in silence staring at the circle of glowing

candles.

‘How dem people react to you's?’ asked Joshua.

‘React…? What do 'ee mean?’ asked Phinias

‘'ow dey look ta you's?’ replied Joshua.

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Hatred is the key

‘Do um?’ replied Phinias tilting his head to one

side.

‘I dunno…,’ she said. ‘How do 'em look to us?’

asked Giselle.

‘You's must know you's… different?’ said

Joshua. ‘Ain't you've sin it,’ he said as he turned

away from them.

‘I mean,’ Joshua paused, ‘how they must look

at da boat of you?’ he said nervously.

Giselle moved from the table and sat beside

him. ‘Don't be tricked by what ya fink ya see.

They all needs us…,’ she said licking her lips. ‘But

they don't want others to know it,’ she said with a

knowing look.

Joshua was taken aback.

Giselle smiled at him. ‘That surprises 'ee don't

it?’ she said. ‘Us've bin on the moor since the

Beakers, for more generations than any of us canever remember,’ she said proudly. ‘Us used a live

at Swincombe farm but when Tyrwhitt started

buildin' Tor Royal us moved 'ere with mother. Us

likes it 'ere, dun 'us Phinias?’ she said.

‘Yeah, us do,’ replied Phinias as he poked atthe logs. ‘But 'tis further to walk to the depot,’ he

said thoughtfully.

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Joshua nodded slowly and looked towards the

fire his black face shining as it reflected the

flames.

‘Our mother brought Shortland's Mara into this

world,’ she said.

‘She saved 'er life,’ said Phinias proudly.

‘Do 'ee know what, Joshua? He'd 'ave lost both

of 'em if our mother hadn't been 'round to look

out for 'im,’ she paused and closed her eyes

before suddenly opening them wide. ‘Look at

that,’ she said pointing at the coloured bubbling

liquid and coloured powders. ‘We 'ave 'elped 'ee

and it got 'ee better,’ she said as she broke into a

proud smile.

She looked pretty when she smiled thought

Joshua.

‘'Ow's that there leg of yourn?’ she asked.

Joshua smiled back at her. ‘Dis fine,’ he saidrubbing his hand down his leg and stretching it.

‘Dis fine fer sure,’ he said as he subconsciously

felt his ribs. ‘Everyding's fine.’

‘Answer me this question. Do ya believe that

you'd still 'ave a leg if ya didn't cum to our door?’asked Phinias.

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Hatred is the key

Giselle answered for him. ‘'Course not. You'd

be like all the others, on sticks… no good to man

nor beast,’ she said knowingly as she winked at

him.

‘We live in this cottage on Captain Sleep's

estate and we help 'im when 'is animals is sick

and sometimes when his servants am taken bad,’

she said reflecting.

She reached across to the glass tank, removed

the biggest toad, stroked it and then tickled its fat

throat. The toad croaked loudly as though he was

talking to her.

‘We mean no 'arm to anybody. Is that right

Phinias?’ she asked.

‘Das right,’ he said. ‘Nobody,’ he replied

turning to Joshua and smiling.

‘Do 'ee wanna 'old 'im,’ she asked as she

offered the toad to Joshua.He shook his head. ‘No… I don't,’ he said

emphatically.

Giselle laughed loudly and kissed the toad

before placing it back in the tank.

‘I wanna show 'e somethin' else,’ she saidrising from the table.

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Graham Sclater

The metal clad door opened and Peter Beck

stumbled out of the cachot.

Benjamin helped him up but it was obvious

that once again he was very sick.

‘Give me a hand will yer! I need to get him to

the infirmary,’ shouted Benjamin.

The nearest guard pointed at Ralph

Etherington. ‘You! Give 'im an 'and and I want

you back in five minutes or you'll find yourself in

there,’ he roared pointing towards the cachot .

Benjamin and Ralph carried Peter into the

ward. ‘Help me! Somebody help me!’ pleaded

Benjamin.

Doctor MacGrath looked up from his patient

and attracted the attention of an orderly.

‘Put him over there and get me some

blankets… quickly,’ he ordered.

George MacGrath finished with his patient andcrossed to look at Peter, covered him with the

new blankets and wiped his forehead.

‘Leave him here. I'll do what I can,’ said the

Doctor shaking his head slowly. ‘I don't know how

much more this one can take,’ he said quietly.Mara stood in the shadows and held back the

tears and waited for Benjamin and Ralph to leave.

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Hatred is the key

She stepped nervously forward, leaned over

Peter and wiped his forehead.

‘Is it right? The war's over,’ asked a delirious

Peter Beck.

‘Yes, it is,’ replied Mara.

‘I thought I'd dreamed it,’ said Peter.

‘It is over and you'll be able to go home when

Beasly makes the arrangements,’ she said as she

caringly washed his face.

‘You're sad about that aren't you?’ he asked.

Mara stopped and stroked his forehead pushing

his long hair from his eyes. ‘I'm happy for you but

I'm sad for myself. You'll soon be going back to

your family in America and I'll be left here in this

terrible place,’ she said sadly.

‘Mara, you know you can come with me if it's

what you really want,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she replied. She turned her headaway and dabbed at the tears with her

handkerchief.

The night sentries stood on the walls oblivious to

the lone figure who had climbed onto the roof of

Number Three Block.

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It was a grey wet morning but the prisoners

stood around in the rain and whispered excitedly

to each other.

Captain Shortland stood outside his office with

Sergeant Greaves and when he noticed the

American flag he took a huge breath of anger

before speaking.

‘Who is responsible for this?’ he raged.

There was a lengthy silence.

Several pigeons flew across the yard. The

prisoners looked up at them and silently envied

the freedom they enjoyed.

‘Find him, Sergeant Greaves! I'll have him

flogged!’ screamed the Captain. He paused and

spat venomously, between his cigar stained teeth,

in the direction of the prisoners. ‘Come forward

now or you will all face ten days in the cachot !’ he

raged.No one moved.

The tension continued to build for several

minutes until Miles Longman nervously shuffled

forward.

Captain Shortland smiled and slowly licked hislips.

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Sergeant Greaves fingered his bullwhip in

anticipation.

Ram Barley stepped forward, followed by

Thomas Johnson, then Marshall Etherington and

slowly everyone else followed until the yard was

full.

Captain Shortland pointed at the American flag

flying above Number Three Block.

‘Sergeant Greaves… get that thing down…

now!’ he bellowed

‘Yessir!’ snapped the Sergeant.

While Sergeant Greaves motioned to two

guards to climb onto the roof and remove the flag

the prisoners erupted into raucous laughter,

clapping, jeering and celebratory handshakes.

The market traders began to enter the square

and ignorant of the American flag proceeded to

set up their stalls before stopping to cheer withthe prisoners.

Captain Shortland suddenly lost his temper.

‘Get 'em out of here! You heard what I said!’ he

snarled.

He looked around, his fingers twitching withanger. ‘No! There will be no market today!’ he

screamed.

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The traders looked at him bewildered and

confused.

‘Captain, we'm come all the way from

Plymouth,’ shouted Martha. ‘Me fish'll go rottin',’

she pleaded.

Captain Shortland stared at her for a while,

took a huge drag on his cigar and exhaled the

thick smoke, obscuring his face. He waited for it

to clear before giving her a nefarious glance. ‘It's

already rotten,’ he drawled. ‘Away with you… all

of ya… now!’ he boomed.

Without another word the traders dismantled

their stalls, packed their goods and left.

As the prisoners scuffled with the militiamen,

several of them were beaten by the rifle butts and

spiked with the bayonets until order was finally

resumed.

The prisoners were manhandled into Number Three Block and the door at one end of the block

was closed and locked. They stood and waited

impatiently for their food and the closing of the

second door. It didn't happen and the guards

remained in position, motionless.‘Why don't you bastards just let us go home?’

shouted Jeremiah Hatch.

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‘Can't you accept the bloody war's over?’

goaded Dylan Chipp.

‘I'll find a way and while I'm at it I'm gonna kill

that bastard Sergeant,’ screamed Benjamin Beck,

his voice cracking with sheer anger.

‘Yeah! There's no way they're keeping me in

this rat infested hole any longer,’ shouted Robert

Stapley.

The block erupted with screams, taunts and

shouts of agreement.

Asha Adams suddenly lost it and rushed at the

guard standing nearest to the open door but was

immediately knocked down by a second guard.

Many of the other inmates joined in and waged

a violent attack on the guards until Sergeant

Greaves and reinforcements arrived and forced

the prisoners back inside.

‘You're a dead man when we get out of here!’screamed Thomas Johnson

The Sergeant cracked his whip defiantly. ‘Shut

up or you'll get the same as 'im,’ he snarled,

pointing at Asha Adams who lay moaning and

bleeding on the granite floor. The injured guards were carried away and

Sergeant Greaves locked the door.

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Reluctantly some of the prisoners now turned

their attention to Asha Adams.

‘If you really want to break out, we've got to

plan it or we'll all end up in the cachot ,’ said

Benjamin Beck.

‘Or dead,’ said Thomas Johnson.

‘Yeah, the bastards will love that. Any excuse

to kill us,’ shouted Marshall Cunningham out of

the darkness.

Asha Adams was helped to his feet, wiped the

blood from his face and checked his bruised ribs

as he struggled to speak. ‘Do they need an excuse

to do anything?’ he asked. ‘No, they can do what

the fuck they want,’ he moaned.

Dylan Chipp stepped forward. ‘I'm starving.

Thanks to you we'll get nothing tonight,’ he said.

Asha Adams struggled to speak through his

bleeding mouth. ‘It wasn't that many months agowhen you refused to eat anythin' in here,’ he said

trying to force a pained smile.

‘Yeah, that's right, ma Lord,’ mimicked

Marshall Cunningham.

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Chapter twenty two

While Captain Shortland sat behind his desk and

smoked his long pipe, Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt stood

near the window smoking a large cigar andwatching the prisoners playing football.

Robert Stapley deliberately kicked the ball over

the wall and seconds later it was thrown back by a

guard.

‘Captain, the Prince of Wales has raised thematter with the American Ambassador and there

is nothing that he or America can do,’ said Sir

Thomas.

Captain Shortland fingers twitched with anger.

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Hatred is the key

‘The Ambassador has assured the Prince of

Wales that he will keep Beasly advised and when I

receive instructions you will be the first to

know…,’ said Sir Thomas taking a long drag on his

cigar. ‘But until then….’ He stood and thought

before he continued. ‘They remain your guests,’

he teased. ‘Please treat them well, Captain,’ he

said. ‘Treat them well.’ He tapped the ash from

his cigar and continued. ‘…after all they are our

reluctant guests.’

Sir Thomas left Captain Shortland's office and

escorted by Sergeant Greaves walked toward the

gate and his waiting carriage which took him the

short distance to the church and Emily's

christening.

Benjamin Beck, Robert Stapley, Asha Adams,

Miles Longman and Marshall Cunningham and

Charles Blasden and several other prisoners

played football.

Benjamin saw Peter with Sylas and stopped

playing and led him across the yard.

Robert deliberately kicked the ball high over

the wall.

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The prisoners waited for a few minutes, but

when it is not returned Charles Blasden walked

towards the wall.

Robert Stapley kicked a second ball hard and

sent it high over everyone's head and into the

outer yard. He and his fellow players waited

patiently and peered up into the bright late

afternoon sun. But when the ball failed to be

returned he and Charles made their way to the

small cracks in the pointing between the rough

hewn granite blocks that they had all

subconsciously picked at in the hours and months

of boredom.

Charles screwed his face and peered through

the thick wall at the nearest guard.

‘Come on, get it back over here then,’ he

screamed.

The guard chose to ignore him and continuedto talk to the sentry on the wall high above him.

‘Come on you bastard, you heard me… kick it

back,’ shouted Robert. He waited impatiently, his

body shaking with a mixture of anger and

frustration.

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Hatred is the key

The guard gave a shrug of indifference,

smirked and walked off in the direction of the

guardroom.

Robert finally lost control. ‘If you don't, we'll

come and get it,’ he shouted.

His threat fell on deaf ears and swearing

through his steaming breath he knelt on the wet

stony uneven ground, oblivious to the pain as the

jagged pieces of granite cut deep into his bare

knees. He dug wildly with his bare hands until the

nails ripped from his bleeding fingers.

His obsession soon spread and within a few

short minutes Charles, Sylas and several other

prisoners joined him to dig feverishly at the base

of the wall.

As they ripped at the wall the smaller pieces of

granite fell away and they threw them at the

sentries. The nearest sentry reacted by panicking and

thrusting his rifle towards them. ‘They're trying to

escape!’ he screamed.

Immediately the deafening, ear-splitting

barrage of drums, calling the Marines to armsreverberated off the stone buildings back across

the yard and onto the open moor.

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Graham Sclater

The prisoners, already in their cell blocks,

shocked and taken by surprise at the noise,

rushed out of the buildings, spilling excitedly into

the yard.

‘What the hell's goin' on?’ questioned Ram

Barley.

‘We're getting outta here,’ replied Charles

without taking his eyes off of the ever-growing

hole at the base of the wall.

As the numbers started to swell the Rough

Alleys rushed forward chanting their watchword,

‘Keno! Keno! Keno!’

Without wasting any more time they began to

hack at the gates impatiently with makeshift

tools, pieces of wood and metal ripped out of the

buildings. Their efforts were futile but other

prisoners soon joined them and the gates gave

way under the sheer weight of numbers and theyspilled triumphant into the next yard.

Captain Shortland and Doctor MacGrath

accompanied by Sergeant Greaves appeared at

the door of the Agent's office and waited while

more guards rushed out to join them on theopposite side of the prison yard.

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Hatred is the key

Captain Shortland looked towards the nervous

sentry on the wall. ‘What's going on, man?’ he

screamed.

‘Sir, they're trying to break out!’ replied the

terrified guard.

By now nearly four thousand American

prisoners had gathered excitedly in the yard while

a never ending stream of captives gushed out to

join them from the other Blocks. Captain

Shortland could feel the tension building between

the prisoners, the ill trained militia and his guards.

‘Get back to your cells…,’ he screamed. He

lowered his head and dug his boot hard into the

mud before slowly raising his head and glaring at

them. ‘Now!’ he roared.

For a split second everyone stopped and there

was total silence as they stood staring at him

defiantly.Some of the prisoners kicked at the ground

while others fidgeted nervously.

‘We don't want any trouble; you'll all be going

home soon,’ said Doctor MacGrath as he stuttered

nervously and tried desperately to reassure theprisoners.

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At first it appeared to have the desired effect

until a lone voice shouted out of the crowd. ‘Break

outta here, come on!’ he shouted.

‘The war's over,’ shouted another. It was the

only encouragement they needed as they slowly

pushed forward.

‘Yeah,’ jeered the angry crowd. ‘Break out!

Break out! Break out!’ they chanted.

‘Keno! Keno! Keno!’ shouted the Rough Alleys

as they collectively thrust their clenched fists high

in the air.

Doctor MacGrath stepped forward. ‘You all

know you'll be going home soon,’ he said, trying

desperately to defuse the situation.

The prisoners pushed and shoved the line of

guards and militia towards Captain Shortland

while others systematically pelted their captors

with stones and larger rocks, many hitting theirtargets, inflicting cuts and deep bloody

lacerations.

‘Listen to me, will yer,’ screamed Doctor

MacGrath his voice cracking with nerves and

emotion. ‘Go back to your blocks, ple… ease,’ hebegged.

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Hatred is the key

They chose to ignore him instead raising their

fists to further antagonise Captain Shortland,

Sergeant Greaves and the guards.

As more and more lethal makeshift projectiles

found their targets the mob grew in confidence,

raising their fists, jeering and taunting their

captors.

‘Break out! Break out! Break out!’ they

continued to chant.

The Somerset militiamen gripped their rifles,

fingered their triggers and looked nervously

around for orders.

Captain Shortland ordered the bugler to sound

the alarm and immediately the drummers ‘beat to

arms.’ The noise was deafening as the

thunderous sound of the drums reverberated once

again from the granite buildings and across the

prison yard.In sheer desperation Captain Shortland, gave

his command. ‘Come to the present!’ he ordered.

While the dazed guards and militiamen tried to

level their rifles to waist height the frenzied

prisoners rushed defiantly forward and wrestledfiercely with them rendering many of their long

time aggressors defenceless.

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Graham Sclater

Captain Shortland gave his next command.

‘Fire!’ he screamed.

The guards and militiamen fired their rifles

harmlessly into the air while the dazed prisoners

stood and looked on. The militiamen and guards

used the valuable time to reload, frantically

ramming their rods down the barrels.

‘They're firing blanks!’ screeched William Cole,

in a combination of excitement and disbelief.

The prisoners now gained confidence and

slowly pushed forward building momentum until

they broke into a run and rushed the remaining

militia.

High on the wall, the strategically positioned

sentries waited for their instructions and prepared

to fire.

Throughout the bedlam and chaos Henry James

held his rifle tight to his chin and continued tomaintain William Cole in his sights.

Captain Shortland knew only too well that the

situation was hopelessly out of control and while

he considered all possible options a voice in the

crowd made the decision for him.‘Fire!’ someone screamed.

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Hatred is the key

As soon as the lone powerful word rang out

volleys of carefully targeted shots thundered

down from the prison walls.

Henry James was the first to shoot, he aimed at

William Cole squeezed the trigger and fired.

William spun around and fell to the ground,

dead. Henry's shot hitting William Cole in the

centre of his forehead.

Henry James tilted his head proudly back. ‘Got

you, you bastard,’ he said as he gave a satisfied

grin before he frantically reloaded.

The prisoners continued to pelt the guards with

stones as they rushed forward.

The guards on the wall fired an arc of shots

into the massed prisoners and, caught in the

crossfire many of them fell heavily, still screaming

as they hit the ground.

Others died silently without uttering anotherword.

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Graham Sclater

Thomas Johnson pulled a knife from his boot

and ran at Miles Longman. Miles was about to

throw a large rock in the direction of the

militiamen and was caught totally unawares by

the vicious attack from behind. They both fell to

the ground and wrestled, rolling in the mud

amongst the dead and dieing Americans and

injured militiamen. Miles, the much stronger of the

two men, grabbed Thomas's throat and his strong

thick fingers dug into the soft flesh beneath his

chin piercing his windpipe.

He tore the knife from Thomas and stabbed

him in the chest several times before letting his

lifeless body drop to the ground.

Sergeant Greaves strode forward, pulled back

his bullwhip, and aiming at Miles, swung it with

lethal accuracy. It wrapped around the thick neck

of black slave and tightened like a boa constrictor.Although Miles struggled to pull it loose, it grew

tighter and tighter until he fell heavily to the

ground. He had no chance, the well-worn leather

choking the very life out of him.

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Hatred is the key

As Sergeant Greaves walked towards the dead

Negro to retrieve his whip, Ram Barley appeared

from nowhere, grabbed it and wrestled the

Sergeant to the ground as they fought for their

very lives.

The light from the log fire along with the

candlelight cast strange dancing shadows aroundthe walls of the dimly lit cottage. Phinias sat at

the table filling small green and brown phials with

different coloured liquids, while Giselle sat in front

of the fire with Joshua. Unnoticed, she pulled a

piece of cord around the neck of an effigy of Sergeant Greaves.

Ram Barley pulled the bull whip around the

bruised neck of Sergeant Greaves and choked the

life out of him.

The guards on the wall fired indiscriminately

into the fighting crowd while the Americans

continued to fight viciously with the militia and

guards that quickly surrounded them.

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Graham Sclater

While everyone else tried to escape from the

yard Peter Beck, unable to see what was going on

and an easy target for even the poorest shot

gyrated wildly on the spot and shook his head

violently. ‘Help me! Help me! Benjamin, help me!’

he repeated before he let out a high pitched blood

curdling scream.

Benjamin rushed towards his brother grabbed

him and tried to pull him to the ground but as he

did so he drew even more attention to them and

the sentries high on the inner wall turned in their

direction and fired volley after volley at them.

Benjamin fell to the ground.

Peter reeled and followed him and lay

motionless across his brother's body.

Ram Barley raced across the yard and as he

hid behind Charles Blasden, a shot passed

through his armless sleeve and into the Ram'snaked chest.

As the uninjured prisoners raced back towards

their cell blocks, they were chased by the armed

militiamen and guards who emitted bloodcurdling

screams as they lunged out at them aggressivelywith their fixed bayonets.

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Hatred is the key

Desperate to escape the threatening militia

and guards the prisoners rushed into the prison

blocks, screaming as the long period of hate

finally erupted and each side released its anger.

The militiamen slashed and jabbed their

bayonets randomly at the unarmed prisoners, who

attempted to escape by swinging the hammocks

haphazardly at their aggressors, but could find

nowhere to hide.

A prisoner wounded by the gunfire knelt and

begged for mercy but without a word from his

attackers he was repeatedly bayoneted to death

in cold blood.

The remaining prisoners fought back and

attacked the guards and militia with anything they

could lay their hands on throwing their meagre

belongings at them, metal cups, plates, blankets

before cutting down their hammocks and throwingthem.

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Graham Sclater

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Hatred is the key

Chapter twenty three

Emily had been christened on her first birthday at

a private service attended by Mara Shortland,

Captain and Judith Sleep, Isaac and Rachel

Hartman and their guest of honour, Sir Thomas

Tyrwhitt, before travelling to celebrate at the

Hartman residence.

‘Happy birthday, little one,’ said Captain Sleep.

‘This is a little something for Emily,’ said Judith

Sleep.

Judith passed a silver bracelet to Rachel who

placed it on Emily's tiny wrist.

‘Who's a lucky girl? It's lovely, isn't it Emily,’

cooed her mother.

‘Today… the 6th April, was also my mother's

birthday,’ said Mara sadly.

Judith held Emily while Mara lit the single

candle on the birthday cake and they all cheeredand clapped enthusiastically.

‘Blow, Emily,’ said Rachel.

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Graham Sclater

While Isaac helped Emily to blow out the

candle Sir Thomas poured the sherry.

Janice Hephzibah, a teenage servant, rushed

into the room followed by Joe, the stable boy.

‘Sir, ma'am, there's trouble… trouble at the

depot!’ stuttered Janice trying desperately to

catch her breath.

‘There's… mayhem! Mayhem!’ interrupted Joe.

Emily mumbled innocently as Rachel took her

from Isaac and held her close to her breast.

‘What did you say…?’ asked Isaac Hartman not

realising that Rachel had taken Emily from him.

‘Janice… Joe… what are you talking about?’

asked Mara.

Joe moved into the centre of the room, his eyes

red and swollen, and tried to speak slowly. ‘At the

depot, sir… ma'am,’ he sobbed uncontrollably.

‘The guards fired on them Yankees. They're tryingto break out!’ he exclaimed.

‘I don't believe it, Joe. Tell me again and this

time… slowly,’ coaxed Captain Sleep.

Joe repeated what he had already said to a

transfixed audience. The colour suddenly drained from their faces.

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Hatred is the key

‘I wondered when…,’ muttered Sir Thomas

failing to finish his sentence and placing the silver

tray and celebratory drinks on the side board.

Isaac Hartman walked to the door. ‘Come

Captain!’ he sighed. ‘Such a sad day for your

birthday, Emily,’ he said looking across tearfully at

his baby daughter and Rachel.

‘I'm coming with you,’ said Mara, as she joined

him at the door.

Beneath the deep threatening rain clouds Captain

Sleep, Isaac Hartman, Mara and Sir Thomas

Tyrwhitt made the short distance in his carriageacross the moor and into Princetown.

As the carriage approached the prison they

could see a crowd had already gathered and

nearest to the entrance stood Thomas Irwin.

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Hatred is the key

It began to rain heavily, as the group walked

into the prison to find Captain Shortland standing

in the centre of the yard his face cupped in his

bloody hands and repeating the same phrase over

and over. ‘Somerset militia, who gave the order?

Somerset militia, who gave the order? Somerset

militia, who gave the order?’ he mumbled

incoherently.

When the group took in the carnage around

them they shook their heads at the sheer horror.

‘No! ’ screamed Mara, her voice reverberating

around the now silent yard.

She pushed past her father and ran towards

the piles of contorted lifeless bodies passing from

one group to the other, searching desperately

amongst the dead and wounded.

Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, Captain Sleep and Isaac

stood and looked on in disbelief.‘The Prince Regent will be outraged by this,’

muttered Sir Thomas.

Captain Sleep nodded his silent agreement.

Mara reached Peter and Benjamin.

They lay motionless against the palisade fenceamongst several dying and dead blood drenched

prisoners.

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Graham Sclater

She bent down and stared blindly at them

before kneeling in the crimson mud.

Her whole body shook with horror as she cried

and moaned powerlessly as involuntary shudders

wracked her body and she bit hard into her

knuckles.

Captain Shortland lowered his hands to reveal

his traumatised and ashen face and continued to

stare blankly ahead.

Benjamin, in obvious pain, cried out. Peter

attempted to sit up but unable to do so Mara

cradled him in her arms and made a feeble

attempt to staunch the blood streaming down his

forehead and into his eyes.

He tried to reach across to his brother, sobbed

and slumped against Mara.

‘What have they done to us?’ mumbled a

confused Peter before losing consciousness.‘He'll be all right, Benjamin’ sobbed Mara

shaking with emotion. ‘You're both going to be

fine,’ she said reassuringly.

‘No… he can't die! We're going home,’

screamed Benjamin.

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Hatred is the key

‘I'm sorry Benjamin… I really am so very

sorry… we've got to get you both to the

infirmary,’ she said in desperation.

She stood and shouted at Doctor MacGrath and

the orderlies who were tending to wounded

prisoners on the other side of the yard. ‘Doctor,

quickly!’ she screamed.

He briefly looked up to her and continued to

treat the wounded guard.

‘Doctor MacGrath, over here!’ she screamed,

but this time she waved her arms wildly.

The Doctor left the wounded guard with his

orderlies and made his way to her ignoring other

wounded prisoners, guards and militia as he

passed.

He carefully parted the blood soaked hair on

Peter's head, checked the gaping hole in his skull

and pushed a towel tightly around his head tostem the bleeding before turning his attention to

his slashed face and placing another towel over

the wound.

He now turned his attention Benjamin.

‘Don't worry about me… I'll be fine… just takecare of Peter will you, Doctor?’ gasped Benjamin.

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Doctor MacGrath, with a concerned look on his

face, nodded and stood up. He motioned to his

orderlies to assist him.

They ran across the yard and lifted Benjamin

onto the first stretcher. Peter began to moan,

gradually regained consciousness and tried to

stand.

‘Don't attempt to get up, Peter, we'll take care

of you,’ said the Doctor.

The militiamen moved closer and pointed their

bayonets menacingly at the brothers thrusting

them ever nearer as they grew in confidence.

Doctor MacGrath suddenly lost his temper.

‘Can't you two fools see that these poor men are

going nowhere!’ he screamed. ‘Get away from

me! Get out of my sight!’

They looked at each other, reluctantly lowered

their rifles and skulked off towards the guardhouse.

Mara continued to stroke Peter's bloody face

and pressed her other hand firmly on his serious

head wound.

‘Yes, listen to Doctor MacGrath, Peter. Heknows best,’ sobbed Mara uncontrollably.

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Hatred is the key

Benjamin began to convulse violently and kick

out.

The Doctor motioned to the orderlies to lower

the stretcher to the ground and he knelt beside

him and tried desperately to help him.

Benjamin coughed heavily and suddenly

stopped moving.

Doctor MacGrath turned and looked up at

Mara. His strained face was slowly transformed

into a look she had seen much too often since

frequenting the infirmary; the look of imminent

death.

Her whole body quivered with shock as Doctor

MacGrath slowly shook his head, reached down

and sensitively covered Benjamin's face with the

bloodstained blanket.

Peter pushed himself up and rested on his

elbow but fell back onto the mud before crawlingover to Benjamin and cradling him in his bloody

hands.

‘Why him!’ he screamed. ‘My brother had so

much to live for… it's this place!’

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He stopped suddenly and a tormented high

pitched squeal emanated from his throat. ‘Your

father…,’ he looked around blindly. ‘He did this,

didn't he?’ he sobbed.

Mara looked at Peter as though he could see

her. ‘I'm so sorry,’ she mouthed remorsefully.

She tore at her long wet hair and shook her

head in despair.

‘I don't know,’ she replied wiping her eyes. ‘I

just don't know…,’ she sobbed violently. ‘He's not

a bad man,’ she looked at her father who

remained transfixed in the yard. ‘He's not!’ she

screamed. ‘He’s not!’

Captain Shortland turned and walked slowly

towards his office, his shoulders hunched and

head bent forward.

A broken man.

The remaining militia and guards stoodnervously in the rain. Motionless, they held their

ground, their rifles and bayonets pointing

defiantly in front of them.

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Hatred is the key

Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, Captain Sleep and Isaac

Hartmann stood and continued to look on in

disbelief at the utter carnage. They watched in

silence as Doctor MacGrath carefully inspected

every prisoner in the yard for any sign of life and

identifying them to the orderlies before he walked

nervously towards Number Three Block.

‘It's over now… it's over,’ he repeated

reassuringly.

The Doctor entered the dark and threatening

prison block, the only light came from the lantern

held by his assistant. He walked in the direction of

the moans and groans. Other prisoners, waited in

the shadows menacingly, while others hid and

peered nervously in his direction.

‘It's over now… it's over,’ he continued to

repeat reassuringly.

Benjamin Beck, Thomas Johnson, Miles Longman,

Sergeant Greaves and many more were lifted

from the blood stained mud and carried towards

the mortuary.

Dylan Chipp sat up slowly and closely

examined the blood covered suit. ‘Damn!’ he

moaned

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Graham Sclater

He stood, checked his pockets and discovered

that the inner lining had been sliced through. ‘My

money's gone!’ he shouted. ‘Who stole my

money?’ he raged. ‘I've been robbed!’

No one cared.

Charles Blasden got up and poked his finger

through the hole in the sleeve of his jacket.

‘Thank God, I didn't have an arm in that,’ he

laughed uncertainly, realising that he had

survived yet again.

Henrietta and Alex stood soaked to the skin and

waited in the cold clear night as the last of therain clouds were blown across the moonlit sky.

The gates opened and when they saw Captain

Sleep and Isaac, the sisters ran towards them.

‘Is it true? Tell me it's not, please tell me,’

asked a breathless Henrietta

‘I'm afraid it is,’ replied Captain Sleep softly.

‘Is Benjamin all right?’ asked Henrietta

anxiously.

Captain Sleep, his face tired and drawn,

stooped down to her. ‘I don't know… it's much too

early but there are many injured and

unfortunately many dead,’ he said sadly.

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Hatred is the key

Isaac put his arm around her shoulder and

pulled her into his chest. ‘Come back tomorrow.

That's best,’ said Isaac, shaking his head

uncontrollably.

‘But…,’ pleaded Henrietta as tears poured

down her innocent cheeks.

Isaac looked at her, took a handkerchief from

his jacket pocket and gently wiped her tears.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said softly as he tried to hide his

tears. ‘Come back tomorrow.’

Alex tried to console her broken hearted sister

as they made their long journey back across the

moor to their farm.

Captain Shortland sat at his desk in near darkness

with an almost empty bottle of cognac within

arms reach. He held a glass awkwardly in his hand

and sat staring at the wall.

Mara entered the office. ‘What have you done?’she asked her voice breaking as she sobbed

wildly.

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Graham Sclater

Her father looked at her vacantly. ‘I don't

know what happened…. One minute they were

jeering and the next… the shots….’ He covered

his face and took a deep juddering breath. ‘It was

a massacre, a cold blooded massacre. I tried to

tell them but no one listened,’ he said his voice

quivering with emotion.

The next morning there was an eerie silence

across the depot yard. The spring sun shone as

the armed guards stood uneasily around the

perimeter walls their fingers twitching nervously

on the triggers of their rifles.

The uninjured prisoners moved solemnly

around the reduced paved area of the yard in a

state of shock and disbelief and paid no attention

to the groups of militia and guards who worked in

silence clearing the blood stained mud, loading it

into carts and replacing it with clean granitechippings.

337



Hatred is the key

The groans and moans of the dieing and

wounded prisoners resonated throughout the

infirmary as an exhausted Doctor MacGrath made

his way slowly through the packed building

checking each of his patients as he passed. He

stopped periodically to check the severely

wounded and covered their faces as they died.

Mara sat beside the heavily bandaged Peter.

She held his hand and prayed.

‘Miss Shortland, you should get some sleep,’

pleaded the Doctor.

‘No, Doctor MacGrath, I'm not leaving Peter

this time,’ she said defiantly.

Unnoticed by anyone, Peter squeezed the

pebble in his hand.

Captain Shortland entered the deserted cemetery

and shuffled towards his wife's grave. He slipped

onto his knees and cried violently.‘What have I done?’ he screamed.

He shook his head erratically and sobbed.

He reached out blindly, tilted his head to

one side and ran his trembling hand across her

name following each letter with his fingers.‘I'm sorry… I'm so sorry….’

He rose to his feet and shuffled away.

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Graham Sclater

A broken man.

Chapter twenty four

The tiny Princetown church was full to capacity

and the bright sun blazed through the stained

windows onto the congregation and the spring

flowers that filled every corner.339



Hatred is the key

Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt sat in the front pew with

Captain Shortland and Mara, Captain and Judith

Sleep, Isaac Hartman, and Rachel holding baby

Emily.

Squire Irwin, Thomas, Priscilla and Dorien sat

behind them with some of their estate workers

while the remaining pews were filled with local

and moorland people.

Henrietta and Alex stood and sobbed beside

their father at the back of the church and the

congregation waited in anticipation and whispered

anxiously to each other.

The organist played and four coffins containing

the bodies of Sergeant Greaves, two guards and a

militiaman were carried reverently into the church

by sixteen immaculately dressed Marines who

placed them in front of the altar.

The solemn faced clergyman, who two daysearlier had christened Emily in such contrasting

circumstances, looked up and spoke. ‘Without

doubt this has been the moor's darkest day and I

pray that catastrophes of this magnitude will

never happen again,’ he said as he bowed hishead respectfully. ‘There will be a day of

reckoning for someone.’

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Graham Sclater

The congregation nodded and murmured their

agreement.

Captain Shortland sobbed unashamedly and

Mara squeezed his hand.

The clergyman continued. ‘Please turn to hymn

number 249.’

The congregation rose to their feet and began

to sing. ‘There is a green hill far away without a

city wall, where our dear Lord was crucified he

died to save us all.’

Every member of the congregation had been

affected in one way or another by the preceding

events and their anguished and yet powerful

voices reached beyond the church and out across

the moor.

They were heard by Joshua Amos, Giselle and

Phinias, the American clergyman, and a small

group of prisoners-of-war. Earlier, they had dugthe shallow mass grave in an isolated strip of

moorland behind the prison to bury their

massacred fellow prisoners. The dead prisoners,

with only their shirts as shrouds, were nailed down

in the roughest of coffins before being buriedtogether.

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Hatred is the key

Joshua wore the new clothes that Giselle had

so carefully chosen and bought for him in

Tavistock and stood trying to imagine the horrors

that had taken place inside the prison and his

providence at not being part of it.

The organist continued to play while the four

coffins were carried out to the church cemeteryand slowly lowered into their graves.

The congregation dispersed in silence and

walked past the church towards the road.

The stern faced Chief Revenue Officer sat on

his horse while several other Revenue men stoodand waited respectfully in front of the open metal

gates and imposing granite pillars.

The wind picked up and thick dark clouds raced

spectacularly across the sky enveloping

Princetown and the surrounding moorland.

As the numbed congregation spilled out onto

the road, the Revenue men made their way

unnoticed towards their intended victims.

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Graham Sclater

Sitting upright on his horse the Chief Revenue

Officer slowly raised his head and spoke out.

‘Squire Robert Irwin… Harold Thomson… you are

under arrest for smuggling contraband and failing

to pay His Majesty's taxes,’ he boomed.

While the Chief Revenue Officer edged nearer

to them the other Revenue men rushed forward

and forcefully grabbed the Squire and Harold

Thomson.

‘There must be some mistake,’ pleaded Squire

Irwin as he struggled with his captors. He broke

loose and raced towards Captain Sleep.

The Squire grabbed the unsuspecting Captain

from behind, placing his hand firmly around his

throat. He pulled a single shot pistol from his

jacket and held it to the Captain's head.

The congregation stood and gasped in shock

and horror.‘Come on man… what do you expect to

achieve with this charade?’ asked the Captain

firmly.

Harold Thomson, unmoved, looked on in

silence.‘I've done nothing… you can't do this to me…

I'm innocent,’ pleaded the Squire.

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Hatred is the key

Henrietta and Alex ran screaming towards the

Revenue men and tore wildly at their jackets as

they marched their father away.

‘Tell them… Sir Thomas… tell them!’ shouted

the Squire.

Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt cast a passing glance in

the direction of the Chief Revenue Officer and

acknowledged him before shaking his head as he

climbed into his carriage and pulled away to make

the short journey to Tor Royal.

The Squire now turned his attention to his son.

‘Thomas, this is all your doing!’ he raged.

A woman in the crowd shouted out. ‘Filthy

cheatin' smugglers.’

‘Hang 'em!’ shouted another.

‘Yeah… hang 'em all!’ shouted several more.

Squire Irwin shook his head wildly, released

Captain Sleep, turned the pistol on himself andfired.

He fell to the floor, dead.

The rooks that had gathered on the church roof

squawked noisily and flew into the nearby skeletal

trees.Spring came late to the moor.

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Graham Sclater

A stern faced Captain Sleep shook his head as

he stepped over the body and walked slowly

towards Dorien and Priscilla's carriage.

‘I'm sorry about your father… and Mister Cole,’

he said caringly to Priscilla.

‘Thank you, Captain. Don't blame yourself, you

brought him to me,’ she said before turning to

glare at Captain Shortland and pointing. ‘He took

him away,’ she said angrily.

‘What am I going to do now?’ cried Thomas

Irwin as he stood and looked at everyone in turn

until his eyes fell on to his dead father's body

laying in the mud.

‘Ah… what have I done!’ he cried, his tortured

scream reverberating off of the church walls and

across the moor.

As the last of the congregation dispersed and

the carriages pulled away, the heavens openedand torrential rain hammered onto the lone

windswept figure of Thomas Irwin, his eyes staring

out into the unknown and a very uncertain future.

Captain Shortland and Mara walked towards the

prison oblivious to the storm raging around them.Her father turned to her. ‘Mara… I'm going

back to sea,’ he sobbed, the rain hiding his tears.

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Graham Sclater

‘Did I? Do you really believe that? Ask the dead

Yankees and the British guards… the militia and

their families… Sergeant Greaves's family… you

ask them!’ he said, looking around at the mud and

the low and heavy clouds sweeping across the

prison. ‘This place is evil… it changes people…

God only knows how many innocent people have

died and, after all these years. I still don't know

you, my own daughter. You're a woman now, you

don't need me… you never have…,’ he said,

stopping to wipe his eyes.

Mara put her arm around him as they walked

back through the prison gates.

Following the massacre, Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt took

control of the depot. He suspended the Somerset

militia, maintaining control with a handful of

Marines and trusted guards, and surprisingly there

was little trouble.

With the agreement and help of the Transport

Office in Plymouth arrangements were made to

repatriate the American prisoners-of-war and it

was established that they should leave in groups,

decided by drawing lots.

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Hatred is the key

At the end of April 1815, the first draft of 249

ragged and emaciated but jubilant Americans

loaded their meagre belongings onto carts and

packed them around the sick and injured.

Dylan Chipp swapped places with Joshua Amos

and left along with Big Dick. ‘I shan't be sorry to

see the back of this vile place,’ said Dylan loudly.

‘Even if I am broke,’ he chuckled, as he walked

beneath the carved arch for the last time.

‘I's reckon us cun do sum good business, Mister

Chipp,’ said Big Dick.

‘I reckon we can… I reckon we can,’ replied

Dylan, straightening his threadbare, blood stained

jacket.

The cart carried a large flag, which represented

the Goddess of Liberty crying over the tomb of the

Americans who died, and bore the inscription,

“Columbia weeps and will remember.” They all talked excitedly as they marched

across the moor and down towards Plymouth and

the waiting cartel ships that would take them back

to America.

Others barely able to walk struggled to keep upat the rear.

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Graham Sclater

Peter Beck was finally well enough to leave and

stood amongst the last batch of prisoners to

depart the soon to be deserted depot.

Captain Shortland, holding a bottle of whiskey

and supported by the loyal Doctor MacGrath,

swayed uncontrollably outside of his office and

watched intently.

Mara walked past her father, gently touching

his shoulder as she made her way across the yard

to join Peter who stood and held tightly onto the

cart. He was blindly overawed by the intense

activity around him as he was pushed and jostled

by his fellow countrymen who eagerly made their

final preparations to leave.

‘Hello Peter,’ said Mara, letting out a deep sigh.

‘You're going back with them today?’ she asked.

He mumbled as he reached out for her hand

but she couldn't hear him.Much to his surprise she pulled away.

He tilted his head questioningly to one side and

she guided his hand towards hers and placed a

pair of glasses in it.

‘Sorry they took so long. Beasly wouldn't getthem for me… so I had them sent from Bath,’ she

said. ‘Are they all right?’ she asked anxiously.

349



Hatred is the key

Peter smiled as he pulled them around his ears

and adjusted them on his nose.

Mara stepped back apprehensively and awaited

his reaction.

Gradually the blurred image became clearer

and at last he could see her. He smiled and

reached out for her hand.

‘They're perfect,’ he said. ‘Perfect.’

He looked at her intensely and she pulled back

nervously.

‘No… please don't worry,’ he said with a smile.

‘It's just… you're even more beautiful than I ever

remembered…’ he paused while he looked at her.

‘Much more,’ he said softly.

Mara blushed. ‘Do you really mean that, Peter?’

she asked.

‘Yes, Mara… I do,’ he whispered softly. ‘There's

no question.’‘You didn't answer mine,’ asked Mara. ‘Are

you?’ she waited for an answer. ‘Are you… going

back with them?’

Peter hesitated. ‘Um… I'm sorry,’ he said

thoughtfully. ‘Going back…? Of course I am.’She was taken aback by his reply and her eyes

filled with tears.

350



Graham Sclater

‘My mother and father will need me even more

now that Benjamin's gone,’ he reflected sadly.

Peter choked back his grief and continued. ‘But…

I'd like you to come with me,’ he said, smiling

lovingly at her.

‘With you…? To America? Are you sure?’ she

shrieked. ‘What about my father?’ she said

looking across apprehensively at Captain

Shortland.

Her father screwed up his face and slowly

nodded his agreement to the silent question he

knew was being asked before taking another long

slug from the bottle and chewing wildly on his

cigar.

Mara and Peter reached out for each other and

kissed.

‘I've lost her, George,’ mumbled Captain

Shortland.‘She's in very capable hands, Captain,’ said the

Doctor.

‘Um… I know, and I lost this place too,’ he said

shaking his head. ‘I've lost everything.’

‘Come, Thomas. Let's have that drink,’ coaxedthe Doctor as he helped the weeping Captain

inside.

351



Hatred is the key

The Americans finally left the depot in warm

sunshine and taking up the rear were Peter andMara riding Captain Shortland's horse.

Peter pulled the horse to a halt.

‘Mara, I can't leave without saying goodbye to

Benjamin,’ he said, unable to hide his sadness.

‘Will you show me where they buried him?’ he

asked.

‘Yes, of course I will…,’ she said tightening her

grip on his waist. ‘I thought you would never ask

me,’ she said softly.

They rode around the perimeter wall and when

they reached the burial ground Peter sat in silence

and gazed in horror at the vast area before him.

‘I heard tell they buried the prisoners in mass

graves but…,’ he shook his head. ‘I thought at

least they would have treated those they

massacred… with… with some dignity… some

respect!’

He screamed, his grief mixed with outrage and

anger. ‘What do they know of respect?’

352



Graham Sclater

They dismounted and Peter looked out across

the expanse of recently dug ground and as the

tears streamed down his face he shook his head

violently.

‘I'm sorry, Peter…!’ she screamed.

Mara made to put her arms around him but he

pushed her aside.

‘I'm… so very sorry!’ she cried.

Peter moved closer to the unmarked grave.

He knelt and, overshadowed by the huge granite

wall behind him, said a prayer for his young

brother. He reached forward, grabbed a handful of

soil, placed it in his handkerchief, folded it and slid

it into his jacket pocket.

He sobbed uncontrollably as Mara took his arm.

‘Come, Peter, Benjamin's at peace now,’ she

said softly. ‘He's at peace.’

She led him to the horse, they remounted androde off in silence.

They rejoined the rest of the Americans and

made their way slowly through Princetown.

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Hatred is the key

As the last of the American prisoners entered

the village square, the subdued townspeople,

children and guards that had gathered to watch

them leave, stood in silence. They knew they now

all faced a very uncertain future.

Mara turned to look for her father but he was

nowhere to be seen. In her heart she knew she

would never see him again and as she fought

back her tears her arms tightened around Peter's

waist.

Giselle and Phinias watched from high on the Tor

as the last group passed beneath them and

crossed the open moor.

Joshua stopped to wave and nodded his

appreciation to them before turning to join his

fellow Americans.

This was the final group of American prisoners-

of war to embark on the last cartel ship and set off

for home in June 1815, six months to the day after

the peace Treaty of Ghent was signed.

Giselle and Phinias sat in silence staring deep into

the fire.

There was a knock at the cottage door and

Phinias got up and opened it.

354



Graham Sclater

He looked at the caller and smiled the widest

grin. ‘Cum in,’ he said. ‘Giselle, us 'ave a visitor,’

he shouted.

Phinias and the visitor entered the dimly lit

room.

‘I changed ma mind,’ said Joshua nervously. ‘I

couldn't leave ya,’ he murmured, as he walked

towards Giselle.

Giselle stood and looked directly into his eyes.

‘I knows,’ she said confidently before breaking

into a wide smile.

While they hugged each other Giselle held the

effigy of Joshua behind his back and squeezed it

gently.

‘I knawed I was right. 'Ee belongs 'ere with us,’

she said softly, ‘'ee really do.’

The end

355



Hatred is the key

Epilogue

In March 1815, on the other side of the English

Channel, Napoleon left Elba and France was once

again at war with England. This time the hostilities

were short lived as he was defeated at Waterloo

and many of the French were captured. Bizarrelysome of those captured at Ligny had been

released from the Dartmoor depot, less than two

years earlier, and were once again to be

incarcerated in the prison.

On April 6, 1815, several months after the war

had ended; many American prisoners were

massacred or wounded by the British within the

Dartmoor depot and shortly after an Anglo-

American commission awarded compensation to

the families of those who died there.

Soon after the release of the French prisoners-

of-war in June 1816 the Dartmoor depot was

closed for more than twenty years, to be

reopened in 1850 as a civilian prison for

dangerous convicts sentenced to life and hard

labour and earning a worldwide reputation of

being one of the most infamous convict prisons.

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Graham Sclater

Dartmoor Prison is still in use today and

memorials have been erected for all the American

and French prisoners-of-war who died there.

Tabitha Books

357



Due for publication in 2010

by Tabitha Books

Receivers

By

Graham Sclater

1



Hatred is the key

Tabitha Books

Preface

It is spring 2010 and over the past twelve months companies

that had previously been extremely profitable succumbed to

the recession that was spreading rampantly throughout the

British Isles like some kind of uncontrollable disease or virus.

No area of business was safe.

Despite the deepening recession, Brian and Sylvia

Chapman battled against the odds to keep their dream alive,

to stay in business. Following major cash flow problems, the

company's bankers decided to withdraw their financial

support as they had done with so many companies during

this period.

The liquidation of the company and the ensuing problems

faced by them and their family, from employees, creditors,

the Receivers, and the banks - in fact, from everyone - leadsto a devastating and harrowing period resulting in disastrous

consequences.

2



Hatred is the key

Chapter one

Who will buy?

The vast tarmac car park that had been completely deserted

earlier was now filling rapidly and a line of queuing cars

choked the nearby roads causing near chaos for other road

users.

In the heavy rain and strong winds, the impatient drivers

eventually began to pull in, and fought to fill the spaces

nearest to the main building. The occupants rushed out of

their cars and joined the ever-growing crowd, pushing their

way towards the double doors.

As the rusty and faded light green 1984-registered Ford

Escort turned into the car park, the driver braked hard and

blocked the entrance. He pushed himself hard back into the

seat and in sheer disbelief, shook his head violently, as he

tried to take in the chaotic scenes around him. At the same

time, he tried desperately to keep the engine ticking over,

dropped the clutch and teased the accelerator pedal. Unable

4



Graham Sclater

to hold back his feelings any longer he screamed angrily, the

deafening roar reverberating around the car.

‘Bloody leeches, they didn't waste any sodding time!’ he

raged.

His lapse in concentration caused the car to shudder to a

standstill and it took several attempts before the engine

turned over and he was finally able to make his way into thecar park.

He drove around frantically until he found the only

remaining free space at the far side of the car park near to

the group of vans that were now surrounded by people. As

he manoeuvred into the space, he scratched a shiny blackBMW parked to his left. His car stalled and he sat looking out

through the dirty and cracked windscreen. He tried

desperately to calm down, oblivious to the damage he had

inflicted on the adjacent vehicle.

Finding it extremely difficult to breathe he fumbled in thepockets of his jacket until he found his Ventolin inhaler.

Pulling it from his pocket, he pushed it between his narrow

lips and squeezed it several times before the effects of the

drug took effect. He moved awkwardly across to the

passenger seat and pushed open the door. Realising that he

did not have enough room to squeeze out of the car, he

reluctantly climbed back over the gear stick and hand brake

5



Hatred is the key

into the driver's seat. He searched the glove compartment

until he found the broken window winder, held it in place with

his left hand while he wound down the window and then

reached for the outside door handle. The rusty and dented

door creaked loudly as he tried in vain to push it open.

Getting more frustrated, he slid down into the seat, pushed

his shoulder against the door until it swung forcefully into the

van parked alongside it, the impact denting the bodywork.

Relieved, he now stood in the car park beside his car

looking strangely out of place compared to the other drivers

who were now making their way excitedly towards the

building.

He was a short man, in his early forties, with unbrushed

collar length greasy hair, deep furrowed lines in his forehead,

unshaven with bloodshot eyes and wearing an expensive

creased and ripped suede jacket, the torn and frayed lining

hung down. His hand made, Italian mud splattered black

shoes and badly creased dark green ill fitting trousers

appeared an unusual combination.

As he walked between the dirty commercial vehicles he

subconsciously ran his finger down the side of the nearest

van to reveal unblemished navy blue paintwork. Noticing the

result of his effort, he took a dirty handkerchief from his

jacket pocket and worked energetically rubbing the dirt to

6



Graham Sclater

reveal the clean silver signwriting along the side of the van.

Overcome with emotion he choked back the tears, kicked at

the tyres and slowly walked blindly towards the front

entrance. With his back bent and his narrow shoulders

drooping forward, he picked his way between the last row of

cars, stopping only for a brief moment to look up at the

crookedly nailed, hand painted sign - Auction today. Above it

was a very impressive, large, bright, rectangular sign fixed to

the side of the building - Brian Chapman Maintenance

Services.

Bending his head even lower, he stooped unnecessarily,

and walked through the entrance.

The large crowd that had already assembled inside thebuilding were packed tightly together, in what was previously

the main office. Desks, chairs, filing cabinets, computers and

all manner of office equipment were marked with a Lot

number and spread all around the office. The bespectacled

middle aged auctioneer stood, on a makeshift platform, a

foot or so above them and checked to see that anyone

interested in the auction was inside. After clearing his throat,

he began. ‘Lot one - a four drawer filing cabinet. Let's start

the bidding at twenty pounds.’

In the front of the crowd, a young man shyly waved hiscatalogue while the auctioneer looked around the room for

other interest. Although an overweight man joined in the

7



Hatred is the key

bidding, at sixty-five pounds, he lost interest, allowing the

younger man to complete the purchase and to smile

nervously at the people nearest to him.

During the bidding for the first item, the dishevelled man

pushed his way around the perimeter of the crowd. Finding a

place in a dark corner, he removed a small notebook and

pen from his inside pocket and began to write down the price

of every item as it was sold.

The man in the shadows cursed under his breath as the

auctioneer looked around the room and repeated the figure

again. ‘Thirty pounds, do I hear thirty five?’

A young man, raised his hand, but the young woman,after hesitating for a split second, continued to bid.

On the podium, the auctioneer sensed that the battle was

almost over. ‘Ninety five pounds, am I bid one hundred?’ He

looked around the room but the interest had now diminished.

‘Going once, going twice.’ He raised his hand and smashedthe gavel onto the desk. ‘The last Lot of the day… sold for

ninety five pounds.’

The lady smiled and walked towards the auctioneer’s

clerk.

‘Ladies and gentlemen that concludes today's auction. I

would like to thank you on behalf of the Receivers and would

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Graham Sclater

remind you that any items purchased today, must be paid for

and removed within the next hour. There will be a number of

auctions of a similar nature in the next few days and I would

suggest that you review the local press, our web site, or

telephone our office.’ He forced a tired smile and closed his

book. ‘Thank you.’

While the dishevelled man remained in the corner and

concentrated on totalling the figures, the remaining members

of the public shuffled over towards the clerk to pay for the

items that they had bought.

The man shook his head and mumbled to himself. ‘Six

thousand, five hundred and twenty four pounds and fifty

sodding pence, that's not going to go very bloody far.’

He pushed the notebook and pen into his pocket and

walked through the remaining empty and deserted offices.

Looking into the last office he noticed a photograph on the

floor behind the glazed door and bent down to pick it up, but

as he stopped to look at it the auctioneer’s assistant walked

into the room and confronted him. ‘Can I help you, mate?

What are you doing in here?’

Still holding the photograph, the man tried to hide it

behind his back. ‘It's alright, it belongs to me,’ he mumbled.

‘I think you must be mistaken, sir?’ questioned the

auctioneer’s assistant.

9



Hatred is the key

‘No… it is mine. I'm just having one last look ar… ’

mumbled the man in response to his interrogator.

The auctioneer’s assistant interrupted him. ‘Oh yeah…

you are… are you?’ he humoured him and smiled falsely.

The man replied in an almost inaudible voice, ‘I'm….’ He

cleared his throat and continued, ‘I’m…I’m Brian Chapman.’

The auctioneer's assistant was taken aback and

continued to stare, and not totally sure that the stranger was

telling the truth, continued to interrogate him. ‘So you're…

Brian Chapman eh?’

The stranger nodded, gave a forced smile, handed him

the photograph and pointed at a smartly dressed man in the

centre. The auctioneer’s assistant cast his eye over the

scruffy man standing in front of him. He studied the

photograph more closely for a few seconds, and, finally

satisfied with the man’s explanation handed it back.

‘OK… nice offices, it's a pity we didn't get more for this

stuff and your vans. Mind you,’ he paused, ‘…yours is the

ninth this week, you can't give anything away these days.’

Brian stared at him, while he felt in his pocket for his

notebook. ‘I know,’ he said.

He gave a half smile, turned, and walked out of the room

American Edition - Hatred is the Key - Eigth Book Set Up 7 Dec 2009

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Transcript of American Edition - Hatred is the Key - Eigth Book Set Up 7 Dec 2009